


Whispers Between Worlds

by NerdCreative



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age Lore, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, Gen, Long, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 40,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdCreative/pseuds/NerdCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the sky is torn asunder, as the past and present converge, as Gods walk among us, the line between what is real and what is imagined fades. Through the chaos, whispers of long-kept secrets and vexing mysteries can finally be heard, flowing as the wind between our worlds. </p><p>Catch up on where the Hero of Ferelden has disappeared to, and why Leliana professes ignorance. We witness the fallout between the Champion and the man who had been the love of her life. And a leader will rise from the ashes of a woman who was never given the chance to be anything but weak. </p><p>When a new power rises, it attracts those who would seek to claim it for themselves. The role of Divine, of Inquisitor, of God, is in question, and there are many ways to climb your way to the top...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Warden

**Author's Note:**

> As a disclaimer: a lot of what I'm describing won't make sense here. Don't worry, it's not supposed to, you didn't miss anything. All will become clear! 
> 
> We open with a greatly missed hero in the months leading up to the Conclave...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long-missed hero forges ahead alone; on the trail for answers to questions no one else seems to be asking.

Each dawn the music began anew, scratching faintly in a distant cleft of her mind.

As the sun peaked above the treeline, its notes would begin to spread across her thoughts like slowly creeping tendrils of mist.

When the colors of twilight bled across the sky and the earth grew still, she could swear the song had voices – its message close enough to touch, if she only strained to listen just a bit harder.

And as she drifted into the Fade, it latched into every twisting corner of her mind – a crescendo of shouted whispers, of horror and bliss, of anguish and pleasure - forming the faded shadow of a grotesque figure whose whispers she could almost hear if she would only reach out...

Each dawn the music began, and Mauren's urgency grew.

_My time has not yet come. It can't have. I must move forward._

The stiff ache in her legs served as a reminder of how far from Vigil's Keep she had come. Many had demanded to come with her, but this task was her burden to bear alone. Should she fail, at least Ferelden would not be left yet again with no Grey Wardens loyal to her banner. Antiva was no short distance away should the worst happen, but surely delayed Wardens were better than no Wardens?

The only comfort offered to her was Alistair's loyalty, and Leliana's letters.

Her limbs ached as she rose from the hard, cold ground to gather her travel sack, hung on a thick branch of an old oak to keep scavenging wolves and bears away. With her calves cramping in agony while she reached for a strap looped around the branch, Mauren longed for the comforts of the Keep, the reality of its distance far to the East now potent. She had not felt like a stranger to long journeys or adventure in some time, and yet the road never felt like somewhere she belonged. Truly, nowhere did, but after nearly a decade Vigil's Keep had finally begun to feel like something of a home.

Waking to the ring of clashing metal in the practice yard, walking the grounds among fresh recruits, pride in seeing their faces full of hope and fumbling in their thirst to prove themselves, the gentle breeze that carried hints of the great sea, the agonizing, sweet song that whispered between her ears...

_No! Is it not enough to plague the present? Must my memories be lost to this madness too?_

Refuge was in the cradle of Leliana’s words, the feel of the paper on which they were written, knowing that in another place and time her hands had held it too. It was the closest Mauren could feel to her, out here on an unnamed ridge on the road to a city of suffocating isolation.

_I know that one day, the Maker will shape the world to bring us together again._

_Until that day, know that you are never alone, never forgotten, and can never be caged._

_Forever, Your Songbird_

As the storm of emotions swelling inside of her threatened to come to a point, Mauren instead turned to collect her supplies, unceremoniously stuffing all manner of items into her travel sack: two long lengths of canvas, pikes, ropes, bandages, poultices, various pelts. The letters, however, were folded delicately, gently placed back into a hollow leather-bound tome filled with other sheets of fluttering parchment.

Breakfast was yet another hard strip of salted pork as she resumed her long, solitary trek to the West. She remembered walking this road before, in what seemed like another life. In those days she was still drunk on freedom, filled with a childish joy in touching snow for the first time, thrilled in the sensation of it giving way under her boots, the sound of it crunching with every step she took. Leliana cheerfully said it only added to her charm, while Alistair never missed a chance to playfully tease her, Wynne looking on bemused as a mother would to her children.

Mauren never had felt more alone than she did in this moment.

Nostalgia helped no one, and she turned her thoughts to more pressing issues. The last correspondence from Warden-Commander Clarel was far more cryptic than anything she’d ever received from the woman. What she remembered of Clarel was a sharp, focused woman. Hidden messages did not suit her.

_We all know what is at stake should the Wardens fail in their duty. There can be no cost a Warden is unwilling to pay._

_The time for fear is over. Now we act._

_We wish you luck in your journey, but I pray that soon it shall be unneeded._

She had mulled the words over in her mind time and time again. Her raven always returned empty-handed. Either Clarel was intentionally refusing correspondence, or the Orlesian Wardens had left their Keep. Mauren was uncertain which she feared more.

As the rays of sunlight began to pour out from over the treetops and turned the snow before her into a blinding corridor of clear white, Mauren found herself humming along with a familiar tune that echoed between her ears, and thought she could hear the fragments of a whisper…

_West._

Her steps ground to a halt. She stared blankly at the snowy path in front of her, legs frozen in place. Mauren knew these nightmarish voices were the beckons of slumbering Old Gods. So was this some fool’s errand was she on? Was it just a trick to believe she had come up with the necessity of this journey west herself? What was she really doing out here, alone in the world? Had she even done anything of importance these past ten years?

_They fill your head with doubts. You cannot give in. Keep going._

Shifting the travel sack on her back, she gripped its straps tightly and drove forward. One foot in front of the other, the snow cradling her boots with each step, the rhythmic crunch of it underfoot drowning out the music of her mind. As the colors of twilight bled across the sky, a sharp, cold wind carried the smells of coals, smoke, and steel.

Orzammar was near.

 

 


	2. The Fallen Templar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ascension of the New God is close at hand, and Samson must collect the final cog to put His plan in motion at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one. May want to grab some coffee!

For many years Samson had considered himself dead - nothing more than the empty husk of a body whose soul had bled out, little by little, long ago. When there was no life left to live, what remained but to mindlessly indulge in the husk’s every craving? When there was no pride left to cling to, what did it matter to beg from those who were once beneath him?  
  


If there ever truly had been a Maker, he was no god Samson wished to serve.  
 

 _There is no Maker’s will, only mine_ , the stranger had declared to him, _And unlike he, I reward my faithful.  
_  

In his time with the Templars, all the Maker had ever done was take from him until there was nothing left to give. No strength, no hope, no faith, no will. Many had considered Samson a good man, a gentle soul, even close to the end.  
 

 _Strike her down Samson_ , they had ordered, _strike her down or face the Maker's punishment._ He could still recall the blurry image of her corpse through his tears, her blood slowly dripping from his sword in a rhythmic patter to the floor. Were these the kinds of protectors the Chantry wanted? Ones who would strike down little girls who trusted them?  
 

 _They made me this monster, and now they will answer for it.  
_  

Compared to the Maker, Corypheus had proven himself a true god.  
 

When Samson prayed for an end to his suffering, Corypheus answered.  
 

When he asked for his fellow templars to be delivered from their oppression, Corypheus answered.  
 

When he asked for the power to bring the Chantry to ruins, Corypheus answered.  
 

Samson had been resurrected, bathed in the power and glory of red lyrium and given purpose anew. It coursed through his veins like the blood of gods, his strength in battle and endurance in the field far superior to that of when he was even a young man. It made the one gift of the Chantry - a daily ration of glowing blue lyrium - all the more pitiful. If he must be addicted to something, why not something that had true power?  
 

It had been an easy task to convert many of the others, in light of all that had happened. What god would allow one of his own houses to be utterly destroyed, his servants dissolved in its wake? There was nothing and no one left to serve, and they had no power to protect. The second-in-command to Meredith had wasted little time in abandoning the city with that snarling bitch Seeker, leaving what remained of their Order in unorganized chaos. Any attempt to provide protection or justice - what they had sworn on their lives to do - was trounced by the over-zealous Guard-Captain. _She latched right on to her piece of the pie. She complained for years about our abuses of power, but the second she got a taste…  
_  

No Chantry to back them up, no Circle to guard, mages and abominations running wild in the countryside, a fugitive terrorist in desperate need of a beheading - was it any wonder most of Kirkwall’s templars defected? Those lost and without purpose either took up hunting mages for sport, or following Samson.  
 

 _The choice is clear, brothers_ , he had shouted to the remaining templars, _We know what they’ve done to us, and I know you can feel the righteous injustice burning inside you._ Some of the crowd had shifted uncomfortably, but most looked to him with hope and anger in equal measure. _I say, let it burn! Feed the flames of your fury! We march until all that’s left of the Chantry is rubble and burning corpses, until our jailors face justice for their crimes, until no one will suffer as we did!  
_  

The square had erupted with the shouts of a hundred voices - angered growls of grizzled veterans, enthusiastic roars from the recruits, the high-pitched cheers of youths no older than twelve - all joined together on one perfect morning, echoing against the walls of Kirkwall’s Gallows. It was the proudest moment of Samson’s life.      
 

The next steps had been easy. Once they were official defectors, convincing his army to take their first draught of red lyrium was simple. Samson knew there were consequences, just as he knew they were worth it. But there was too little time to sit and go over it with every man, woman, and child. Corypheus demanded much, and they asked no questions when they felt the warmth and power surging through their veins. It was just easier this way.    
 

It had all led Samson here, gazing out across a sprawling white valley, empty save for its vast pinewood forests, and a lone, crumbling temple that had nearly been lost to the forgetfulness of time. Here was where they would become heralds of the new world and a new god, to deliver his justice of fire and steel.  
 

Samson was up to his knees in snow, but felt no cold, nor bite from the howling wind dragging on his cloak. Any other army would have taken twice this time to make it so far, and never would attempt a march through the Frostbacks. There’s a lot here to be proud of, he thought as he looked back at his chosen platoon. They moved with no fatigue nor gave any hint of struggle or pain in their eyes. There was only the soft, ever-glowing red of vengeance.  
 

At the sound of several footsteps trudging through the snow, Samson turned to find two scouts he had sent on a ranging mission before dawn. “We found the encampment, sir,” one began, saluting graciously, “nestled between two cliffs. Defensible. He is with a substantial guard. Well-armed, well-supplied. They seem to have been entrenched over a fortnight. We were unable to discover why they do not stay in Haven.”  
 

Dismissing the scouts with a wave of his hand, Samson looked back across the valley. It was a curious thing that their target didn’t seek refuge in an established village. Samson remembered what it was like to be cold, and for templars without red lyrium, they must be frozen. He pondered it on his way back to their makeshift camp.  
 

While moving with his main force required frequent stops, fire, and clear campground, Corypheus had hand-selected this group of soldiers for the mission at hand. As Samson made his way towards the center of camp, he eyed the massive behemoths Corypheus had insisted on bringing. They were towering, cumbersome creatures who had slowed their progress considerably. They seemed incredibly ill-suited for a march through the tallest mountains in the south.  
 

Shaking the doubts from his head, Samson found his way to the central tent, taller than the rest by three heads at least.  
 

He hesitated at the entrance, only for a moment.  
 

Corypheus’ dwelling was not typical for a great general, king, or, Samson figured, a living God, if any had ever before found need of a tent. He reasoned that it must just a way for their leader - or whatever he was - to sit and ponder alone. Inside was complete darkness save for one small, flickering candle in a lantern on the bare floor. Finding Corypheus hunched over on a simple wooden bench and staring intensely at an empty patch of wall, it occurred to Samson he knew nothing about him.  
 

“Come, Samson,” the deep voice commanded before he could think anymore about it, “tell me what you know.”  
 

Before he had been given to the Chantry, when he was just a small child, Samson had fallen out of a ferryman’s boat at a river crossing between his parents’ farm and the nearest village. In his panic, his foot became entangled by the debris of an old fishing net. His mother had immediately jumped into the water after him, but the tug of the currents on her heavy winter cloak had proved powerful for her to reach him.  
 

He could recall how the world seemed in chaos as he flailed himself to the surface, only to be pulled down and submerged again and again and again. His sinuses burned and vision blurred, the frigid water searing his skin, coughing and screaming as more and more water filled his throat. Soon, he had no strength left to try.  
 

It was almost peaceful when he simply gave up, drifting lazily down into the quiet deep of the water. The biting cold became instead a blanket of warmth that cradled him gently off to sleep. But before he could slip away, a voice called from above, deep and murky, muffled by the thick layers of water surrounding him. It was the ferryman, who had anchored his boat and dove into the heavy currents to gather Samson into his arms.  
 

To Samson, the sound of Corypheus’ voice felt like being submerged in that river: deep, calm, the strange warmth that comes with a frigid cold. “We have located the Lord Seeker’s encampment, my lord. Why he does not stay in Haven…” Samon’s answer was cut off with a dismissive wave of Corypheus’ hand.  
 

“Clearly they had a...disagreement. We will know more once he is ours.” Corypheus stood from his bench, moving towards the entrance of his tent without so much of a glance at Samson. “We will leave now. Do not bother taking this down. I expect we will return shortly.” He opened the flap of his tent and disappeared into the blinding white snow.  
 

 _It’s just his way,_ Samson thought. After all, the Maker had never spoken a word at all, and never showed his face. But in a way, that made this all the more strange to Samson. Because the Maker never shows his hand, he remains infallible. _But Corypheus...he doesn’t have that going for him, does he?  
_  

The more he tried to sort out his feelings on the matter, the more tangled his thoughts became. Shaking his head with a growl, he smoothed back his hair and marched out of the tent to gather his men.  
 

* * *

 

It was clear from the expressions of the camp’s guards that their presence was a bit unexpected.  
 

“Tell the Lord Seeker we require an audience.” Corypheus spoke calmly, towering above the stunned guards. Perhaps eager to get out of the God’s shadow, they hurried off towards the center of the camp, which brought a smirk out of Samson. Humor could be hard to come by in these days, but the sight of two veteran templars scampering with their tails between their legs brought some joy to Samson’s beaten heart.     
 

As they waited for the Lord Seeker to figure out what he was going to do, it finally dawned on Samson why Corypheus had insisted on bringing no less than three behemoths with them, and why he had to come personally.  
 

The sound of marching soldiers brought Samson out of his reverie, and he could sense the rest of his platoon waiting in anticipation. They were desperate for a fight, and he felt the air warm as the heat of red lyrium radiated from their skin.  
 

The Lord Seeker was a much less imposing man than he would have imagined. He’d heard tales of his prowess - the kinds of tales all such leaders have - but now found them hard to believe. The man’s skin was of a sickly pallor, his eyes sunken deep into his skull, teeth crooked and yellow. _Poor fellow looks worse than I do._ It brought another smirk across his face.  
 

“What is the meaning of this? I demand to…” The Lord Seeker began, sounding genuinely in control, yet still stopped his angered march ten yards from Corypheus. It ruined the facade a bit.  
 

“You know who I am.” Corypheus interrupted. “If you do not, you will come soon to know. You may believe the Maker is with you, or has forsaken you, but hear this: he is not here at all. If you doubt the truth of my words, look around you. Your world burns in an endless war. Your Chantry has failed you, and now seeks to enslave you again with empty words and the blessings of a God who never was.”  
 

The looks on many of the templars’ faces were familiar. They were those of the crowd in Kirkwall’s Gallows: there was confusion, anger, fear, discomfort...but many of suspicious hope. And with a seed of doubt, they had their way in.  
 

“Lord Seeker Lucius, look upon the power of a true, living God.” Corypheus challenged, gesturing back towards the platoon of roaring behemoths, heavily armed soldiers, and the grotesque monstrosities created from the raw power of red lyrium - all eager to spill blood in the name of their God.  
 

As the templars faced them, Samson knew that Corypheus’ plan would work. Their formation faltered as they looked to each other for any sign of reassurance, for any indication of what to do, while Lucius’ face was expressionless, seemingly staring off at some point far beyond them.  
 

 _Is he stunned or just stupid?  
_  

“I have known the end was coming.” Lucius spoke, his head hung, and sounding like more of a tired old man than the proud commander of minutes before. “This was to be my final chance for this world,” he gestured weakly towards the direction of the temple, “but I look upon you, creature, and I know that no matter the outcome, it will be for naught.” He lifted his head and turned his gaze to Corypheus, the same expressionless look across his face.  
 

“If you are how the world ends, then so be it. It may as well begin with me.”  
 

The army of templars were truly in panic now, some backing away in uncertainty and confusion.  
 

“Templars!” Corypheus roared, seizing the opportunity, “You need not fear any longer. You have seen the gifts your new God bestows upon his faithful. You have seen his power now with your own eyes. Where before your prayers were met with silence, I will answer. Your part in this is not yet over. Stand with me and live to see the dawn of a new era. Disobey, and die.”  
 

For a few moments, everything was still but for the heavy breaths of the behemoths and flapping banners in the wind. The first one to move was a templar in officer’s armor - her eyes defiant as she stepped forward, drawing her sword that shone brilliantly in the afternoon sun. “You speak lies with every breath, monster. I know what I stand for. There shall only ever be one God, and he is the Maker!”  
 

Before she was able to ever strike once with her brilliant sword, Lucius approached her gently, placed his hand on her shoulder in a comforting manner, and slipped a dagger into her side between the plates of her armor. The look of shocked betrayal on her face as she staggered, gasping and unable to break her gaze from her Commander’s face grabbed at Samson’s heart.  
 

The look of a girl who failed her test as she lay dying, her blood slowly dripping from his sword in a rhythmic patter to the floor…  
 

Lucius guided the young woman down gently to the earth, whispering soothing words until her blood colored the snow a deep red around them, and her eyes stared off unblinking into the sun.  
 

Chaos broke out in the templars’ ranks. It was impossible to tell who sided with whom from their distance, but swords met bodies and blood began to trickle downhill towards them all the same.    
 

The clash of blades and screams of dying men slowed, then stopped. Templars stained red stood over the bodies of their slain comrades. They had fought heroically, they had fought for the Maker, and they had died.  
  


“So this is where the end begins.” Lucius said, turning his gaze back to Corypheus, “What would you have of us then, my Lord?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it would be much more difficult to try and write from the perspective of someone who supported Corypheus. To my great disturbance, it was actually quite easy to understand.
> 
> ...eek what does that say about me?!


	3. The Vagabond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The disgraced Champion of Kirkwall and her rumored lover, the terrorist apostate Anders, have been on the run for three years. 
> 
> But with red lyrium spreading like a blight across Ferelden, Hawke must find a way to contain the power she helped unleash upon the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter can get a bit dark. But where else could a relationship go when your partner murdered hundreds of innocents in the name of justice? 
> 
> How did any of you guys reconcile their relationship if your Hawke didn't agree with Anders' actions and but ran away with him?!

The rebellion had spread like an infection across Thedas.  
  


They had crept through the shadows of Denerim, whispering the words of freedom. Shelf upon shelf of phylacteries were thrown to the ground until every Circle mage’s blood was intertwined.  
  


Towers burned, the Chantry faltered, and many Templars met justice at last. It was everything they had wanted…wasn’t it?  
  


Long ago she told Anders she was prepared for war. But standing among the ruined campground of yet another group of slain apostates, she knew those had been the words of a foolish, naive girl.  
  


Arenth knelt beside the torn body of a young woman, her eyes still open wide in horror. The maggots hadn’t settled in yet, and the smell hadn’t yet become unbearable. She imagined not four hours ago, this body had still harbored a life.  
  


As her gaze trailed down from the woman’s slashed chest, her blood-drenched waist, to her torn bare feet, Arenth wondered what kind of woman she might have been. Perhaps the man’s corpse to her right had been that of a lover. Perhaps they had been on the run together, or he had simply been a friendly face on the road. Had she passed her apprenticeship yet? What did her face look like when she smiled? What had her laugh sounded like?  
  


None of that mattered now. The woman hadn’t known to smother her fire while she slept to stay hidden. How would she, being indoors her whole life? And now she was dead. _Had she been prepared?_  
  


A gentle breeze brought a refreshing reprieve from the thick stench of death, and Arenth spied a scrap of paper fluttering in the woman’s curled fist. Thinking it might lend clue to who this woman had been or where they were headed, she gently opened the woman’s stiffened fingers and unfurled the parchment.  
  


_Andraste suffered at the hands of the magisters, thus she feared the influence of magic._  
  


_But if the Maker blamed magic for the actions of the magisters in the Black City, why would he still gift us with it?_  
  


_The oppression of mages stems from the fear of men, not the will of the Maker._  
  


Her hands trembled as she began to recognize the words. Copies of it had spread far past the Free Marches, the war cry of many new rebels. Shutting her eyes, Arenth tore Anders’ manifesto to shreds, letting the pieces scatter lazily in the breeze. _Fuck._  
  


When she saw Kirkwall’s Chantry explode, heard the deafening ringing in her ears, staggered as ground quaked beneath her...she knew. She couldn’t hear Anders’ words over the persistent screech in her ears. She didn’t need to. How could anyone else understand what he was saying? Was no one else struggling just to stand? _Anders, what have you done_ , she had asked pointlessly.  
  


“Arenth,” his voice brought her out of her reverie, “I found more...inside this poor fellow’s body.” He was inspecting a long, thin shard of glowing red, his own fingertips stained the same color from the apostate’s blood. “How do you think it got so...entrenched?” He asked, seeming to struggle for least gruesome way to put it.  
  


“I’m not sure,” she began, thankful for the chance to think on something else, stepping over bodies to move towards him, “making weapons with them, maybe? This could be from the blade that killed him, couldn’t it?” She took the shard from his hand, inspecting it closely. _For something so evil, it sure is beautiful…_  
  


Anders plucked the shard from her fingers and threw it against the trunk of a thick oak where it shattered crudely. “If it was a blade, it can’t have been a very good one.” He said with a smirk, the same one that reminded her of better times. She couldn’t help but smile in turn, and hated herself a little bit for it.  
  


It was a conflict she struggled with daily, each night resolving to deal with it tomorrow.  
  


She should have killed him that night in Kirkwall.  
  


But she couldn’t. There was something about Anders, something that made her breath catch in her throat and quickened her heart each time she saw him. It was the breadth of his shoulders, the way the muscles flexed in his forearms when he took off his boots, the vibration of his voice in her ear as he whispered her name...as she stood behind him, knife in hand, staring at his shoulders, she couldn’t do it.  
  


She tried to imagine it, to will herself to plunge the knife. Just the thought of it horrified her more than any demon or blood magic she had ever faced. _Go, just go!_ She had finally screeched, her voice cracking horribly. Her whole body had been trembling with terrible force, hair plastered to her cheeks with tears - the brave Champion of Kirkwall, who had killed men beyond count was reduced to a sniveling child.  
  


When Anders was gone, Aveline had laid a heavy hand on her shoulder, in what was meant to be a reassuring manner, Arenth knew. But all she could think was how Aveline had been able to do what was necessary all those years ago, but she could not.  
  


“It’s spreading, isn’t it?” Anders now asked, his demeanor quickly turning serious, “The red lyrium, I mean. We used to only see it, what, once a month? And only in the North, but now…” his brow knotted in worry as he gestured widely to the dense thicket of trees around them, “here we are not five leagues north of the damned Kocari Wilds and it shows up in some corpse.”  
  


Had they really come so far? The Chantry explosion somehow felt like it happened both just last week and a lifetime ago. In nearly three years of being on the run, she and Anders had traveled what must have been half of Thedas, sleeping under the stars all the while. Her skin had become a deep tan, her hair was constantly a tangled mess, and her feet had developed callouses harder than rocks. All in all, not the most glamorous lifestyle she had experienced.  
  


“That thought had occurred to me as well…” she began, matching his expression, “Whatever it means, I know that it can’t be anything good for us. For all I know, I caused this.” She sighed deeply and turned back to the sprawl of corpses and trashed campsite. The smell was starting to get to her. “After all, I am the one who brought this thing back to the surface.” She looked back at Anders, worried about his reaction to what she was about to suggest, “I think we might need some outside help on this one.”    
  


His brow still furrowed, he looked at her with some confusion, until the true meaning of her words dawned on him. Surprise turned to anger, his eyes narrowing as his voice turned to a dangerous whisper, “No, I won’t be having any part of that.”  
  


She cast her eyes to the ground and sighed again. She knew that was what he would say, which made what came next even harder. “...Well, then perhaps you don’t need to.” she said in a soft but firm tone, “Tell me where to find one of them - Stroud, or Nathaniel maybe - and I’ll pursue it.”  
  


The world was quiet for a moment, the silence wrapping around her like a coffin. Her back to Anders, she considered looking to see if he had even heard her words, or understood the real message behind them. The rough grab at her shoulder, turning her harshly around to face him showed that he had. “What are you trying to say, Arenth?” His voice was the same dangerous tone, and his eyes bore down into hers. _I will not balk._  
  


“Anders you know that this is more important than you and me. You know what will happen if red lyrium spreads.” _Remember Meredith_ , she had wanted to say, but thought better of testing his temper. “We must do something - and if you won’t, then it falls to me. I know you don’t want to go back to the Wardens -  I don’t want you to either. So just tell me how I can reach someone and I will handle it from there.” The same silence settled back between them. Anders’ face softened, his expression turning to a resigned sadness that tore at her heart.  
  


He opened his mouth to reply, but before their silence could be broken, several voices echoed off through the forest. This was hardly the first time they had been stumbled upon. The stench of death and smoke brought bandits and scavengers like vultures to carrion. They tried to avoid violence when possible but sometimes that’s just not how things worked out.  
  


Arenth silently nodded her head to the treeline, and they both knelt behind thick oaks, drawing their staves. She couldn’t help but note how the muscles of Anders’ forearms tensed as he gripped his weapon. Shaking her head, she clenched her jaw and focused back on the apostates’ camp.  
  


It was hard to see exactly who the figures were while trying to remain hidden. They approached the camp with weapons drawn. Their swords were of fine quality - unlikely to be bandits. The ringing of plate and chain together as they drew closer hinted at soldiers, but whose?  
  


She stole a glance at Anders and found his mouth curled into a snarl, his muscles coiled and ready to strike. The sound of plate greaves drawing closer drew back her attention to a man who bore a crest of sword and flame.  
  


Templars.  
  


Other apostates they had encountered in the past few span had given harrowing reports - templars ravaging the countryside, slaying anyone in their path whether they had magic or not. She was skeptical of the extent of those claims, perhaps as she didn’t want to believe Carver could be caught up in something like this. He was always brash, he always hated magic, but surely he would never…?  
  


“Looks like this one’s already been picked clean,” one of the templars called out, kicking over the corpse of the slain woman, “Suppose whoever did the dirty work for us deserved a little something for their time.” The anger radiating from Anders was palpable. _Maker I hope there aren’t too many of them._  
  


“These poor sods’ boots ‘ent even worth takin’. Figures they live like the mongrels they are when we ‘ent there to keep ‘em clean.” Another complained, turning one of the dilapidated tents to splinters and scraps with several impatient whacks of his sword. Anders turned his gaze to her, his eyes imploring. The templars were certainly giving her fewer reasons to offer mercy.  
  


“Andraste’s mercy, what the hell is this?” The closest templar exclaimed, kneeling by the tree Anders had destroyed the red lyrium on. The templar held up a shard to the afternoon sun, showering her face with beams of red light, her eyes growing wide in marvel. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like lyrium but…”  
  


Anders didn’t wait for permission this time. Stepping out from cover, he pushed out his hand forcefully, a shockwave striking the red lyrium from the templar’s hand and knocking her with an audible thud to the earth.  
  


_At least I only counted four of them I suppose..._  
  


“Drop your swords, abandon your unholy crusade and I may be merciful.” He called out, in a voice that was too reminiscent of Justice for her liking.  
  


“More bloody apostates!” The templars didn’t waste any time. First came the templar who hacked the tent to pieces, clearly happy to have something more interesting to cut down.  
  


Father had taught his apostate daughters all he knew from the time they had their first dreams. But where Bethany preferred the peace of the Chantry, Arenth found meaning in battle and strife.  
  


Struggle invigorated her. Time would slow, and she was filled with a rush of joy at each successful spell, each correct coordination of muscles to dodge and strike. They built upon each other in an elaborate dance, one she had done so many times she no longer needed to think in battle.    
  


Templars danced a bit differently than a typical mercenary, but she knew how to match their steps just as well - _deflect, dodge, strike, slow, dodge, blind, strike, ice, dodge, immolate._  
  


The first templar fell, boiling inside his heavy plate armor, smoke seeping through its creases. Anders had taught her that step, many years ago.  
  


His style of combat was...less restrained than hers. The other half of the templar party approached them now with more caution, their shields raised high but angled down - a true sign of templar training. That, and the telling stillness of the world around them. Dampening the presence Fade was always a skill Arenth found troubling about the Templars. It seemed akin to playing God.  
  


Another shockwave pushed out from Anders, flattening every blade of grass and staggering their two foes. Capitalizing on their momentary shock, Arenth separated from Anders, forcing the templars to split up. The moment one of the templars locked onto her, she darted into the treeline.  
  


_Anders is a big boy. He can handle the other two on his own._  
  


As she weaved between trunks to route her opponent, she couldn’t stop the sharp pang of guilt that almost stopped her in her tracks. But this was hardly the first time she had left Anders outmatched in the name of strategy, and unless this time something happened…  
  


She spotted the back of the templar, clearly lost and uncertain where to go. Most templars were just as unfamiliar with outdoor combat as that slain young apostate was. They were almost too easy to kill, she thought, willing the form of a pillar of fire underneath his feet. His life ended as that of her first kill, his screams of agony muffled inside of his plate helm.  
  


After the templar fell silent, she strained her ears to hear any sign of conflict back at the camp. There was nothing, only the whisper of the wind flowing between leaves. What would she do if it had really happened this time? Six long years together, the happiest and lowest moments of her life...just gone?  
  


“Ah, there you are.” Anders’ voice came cheerily towards her. “You always let me have the most fun with these things, you know?” She lazed against a tree trunk and smiled in relief despite herself.  
  


_Is this so wrong? Is this something I cannot be allowed…?_  
  


Clearly invigorated from his success in battle, he strode towards her, that same smirk on his face, “Good to see you cleaned things up for me.”  
  


Before she could even open her mouth to reply, his lips were on hers, fingers entwined in her tangled hair and gripping her waist so tightly it almost hurt.  
  


And she was holding on just as hard. Her fingers clenched the fabric of his tunic, opening her mouth to him and pressing her body against his, desperate to be closer, impossibly closer…  
  


He gently bit at the bottom of her lip, then pushed her back roughly against the the thick trunk of the tree. _How did I come to need this so much_...a thought began to form in her mind, then Anders bent to lean next to her ear. Just the heat of his breath was enough to send searing waves of desire down her body. She shut her eyes, hardly able to bear it and let out an involuntary whimper.  
  


“Do you know the things you make me want, Arenth?” He whispered into her ear, the vibration and the sound of his voice, rough with lust, sent chills down her spine. “What will I do when you’re gone?”  
  


Slowly, her fogged mind wrapped around his words. She leaned back to look at him with a furrowed brow. “You mean you’re…”  
  


Anders again didn’t let her finish her thought, bringing his lips to her neck and setting her nerves aflame. She finished her sentence with a deep moan, clawing her fingers into his shoulder. He grabbed underneath her leg and pulled it up to his hip with hers responding in turn, pulling herself closer and closer to him.  
  


“Anders…”  
  


It was a conflict she struggled with daily, each night resolving to deal with it tomorrow.  
  


She was losing him.  
  


So in moments, she held him tighter.  
  


Kissed him more harshly.  
  


Pulled him further inside her.  
  


She should have killed him that night in Kirkwall.  
  


But she didn’t.

 

 


	4. The Dreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dread Wolf has awakened, determined to right his many wrongs. Yet he questions if his first waking decision is about to have disastrous consequences, and all he can do is wait and watch...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a whole Thedas world theory behind this story. It will be revealed over the course of the series. Slowly. If you're good with Google and curious you can probably find my whole explanation if you're so inclined. 
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy the confusion and ambiguity from Solas' chapters :)

Fen'Harel had awakened to a world he did not recognize. 

In the first days, he had thought - had hoped - that his body's mind was simply slow to fully awaken. Surely the world couldn't feel so...still? The air was silent, the earth a dead corpse surrounding him. He was strikingly, painfully alone.

In those first days, he wept.

He had wished nothing more than to lay back down and return to an unending slumber, to a world that felt alive. In truth he was still uncertain any part of this was worth saving. But how could he deny her? After all that she had done for him, all that she had endured by their hands, she still felt compassion for them. In some ways, he found it admirable, and in many others found it foolish. And yet, her fate was his fault in part. And despicable as the elves had become, he was to blame. Duty bound him to save all that was left, and return the world to the way it should be.

 _Though I fear it may be too late_ , her last words echoed in his head as he held one of the last and strongest pieces of her soul in his hands, nestled next to him as he woke. 

He should have waited in the chamber longer. One does not simply stand up at the end of uthenera. Considering the length of his slumber, he should have waited for weeks, not days. His legs buckled underneath him like a newborn halla, his magic was uncontrollable, the world still a swirl of confusion and an unbearable silence. 

As soon as his legs could carry him, he left. 

At his first steps outside, he cried out in anguish, the sun blinding his long-closed eyes. The secluded ridge that housed his chamber was littered with rocks that tore at his bare feet, their callouses lost ages ago. Slick blood running down his soles, he lost his footing and fell hard to the dirt, tumbling down the steep ridge into a heap at its base. His body bled into the cracks of the earth and his head swam, an alien world spinning around him in a haze of blinding light, rough edges, and maddening silence.

  
_An appropriate beginning to my penance,_ he thought, struggling to get to his feet and survey the land around him.

 

_This whole world is wrong. And undeserving as its people are, I shall save them all from it.  
_

 

* * *

 

Not yet a week had passed before Fen'Harel made the first mistake of this new life.

_  
What is done has been done. Let us now see if this gamble will pay off._

  
He sat at the crest of a large valley, where the wind was strong and wove the air in patterns of swirls and gusts. Here the world did not seem so still, and it was a great comfort. This valley had not changed much over the ages - nor the wonders that had been worked underneath it. If he tried hard enough, he imagined he could hear the voices of generations lifted into the air in song. If there was any place in this world the disgraced Magister's plan could work, it was here. His plan had been impressive, even to Fen'Harel: a strong blood sacrifice, the greatest deposits of lyrium he knew of, and a powerful foci. Perhaps the plan had not been so foolish after all. 

  
Still, the sight of her orb in the claws of that filthy Magister...

  
All there was left to do now was wait. And as luck would have it, that was one skill he was quite proficient at. Though many did not realize it, patience could often be a far more valuable tool than strength or power.

  
He tried to recall this valley as he had seen it before. There was no temple then - though the vast pinewood forest remained. No, the difference was not so much in how the valley appeared, but in how it felt. The earth had lived and breathed here. Life and music seeped out of every crack and cleft. The first time he had seen the world beneath this valley, his eyes had widened in awe, unable to take in all that surrounded them. In their death was so much life, and in that moment he had actually felt a glimmer of...envy. 

 

His memories only served to make him feel more certain in his choices now. Pride had gotten him here, and he could not let pride get in the way of letting some twisted human use one of his people's artifacts if that's what it would take. Pride would demand that he wait until he was strong enough again to use it himself - _And by then it may be too late_. The hidden wisdom in her words brought a sad smile to his face. She knew him far too well. 

  
His name in this life would serve to always remind him of his mistakes. He would brand himself with his sins so he might never forget them. 

  
At the lip of the valley, the first caravan of humans appeared. Soon, everything would again be as it should. 


	5. The Red Templar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson awaits redemption as the world's new God begins his ascension to the Heavens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't posted a new chapter lately due to feelings I'm sure all writers have at one point or another. "Oh my god this is the worst thing ever written in the history of things being written." - and this being the first time I've ever shared any of my writing! 
> 
> But, I still want to write this story. So here we go!

One by one they filed into the Temple in an orderly fashion. The least important men and women in all of Thedas - mages and templars that were sorely unneeded by this world.

  
Truly, why did they exist at all? They were their own world, templars that existed to cage mages. Mages that existed to provide purpose to those templars. Even the lowest peasant was more valuable - peasants grew the food they ate, bred the horses that pulled their convoys, and cleaned the pots they pissed in. And in return these rebels killed them like they were nothing but flies in the way to achieving their perverted sense of justice. Who ever told them their lives were so damned important? 

  
So with a manic sense of joy rising in his chest did he watch them walk to their graves.

  
Lucius had chosen a high-ranking representative to go in his stead to this Conclave - the perfect way to have him be in three places at once. It did not take a mastermind to know that the Divine wanted to believe more than anything that through her efforts alone, peace could be achieved and she could go down in history as a savior. A request for a private meeting between her and a herald of the Lord Seeker before the Conclave began...her own hope and faith would be her doom, and the New God's victory.

Samson and Corypheus walked through their ranks for a final check before the beginning of the end. A swift group of rangers from the Orlesian Wardens had arrived the night before. A small squadron of Lucius' men remained with them, the rest following him far to the East. As a testament to their bravery, not a single one flinched next to the massive behemonths and twisted bodies of the red templars. With less than fifty men, Samson would conquer the world. 

 

"My Lord, are you certain you do not wish me to remain? I want nothing more tha-"

  
"What you wish is not important." Corypheus snapped, looking over their small army. "The plan is all that matters. Do you not understand your part to play in this is just as vital?" 

  
Samson's head swirled with a strange mixture of shame and pride at his words. They were dripping with condescension - _just like Meredith_ \- yet were more validating than any other words he had heard in his miserable life. It seemed rather fitting for a deity, as far as he could tell. As they made their way to the front of the lines, despite knowing better he tried to voice another of the little questions that buzzed around his mind incessantly as a fly. 

  
"Of course, my Lord. But surely once you ascend you won't need me t-" 

  
"Silence, you fool." Corypheus dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and turned towards their men, "Wardens! Red Warriors!" he cried out to them, his deep voice resounding in booming echoes against the valley walls, "Years of planning, years of waiting, and you have all arrived to this one glorious moment. You have cast aside your false gods to embrace a new living one, who hears your cries for deliverance from this cursed world." His gnarled face twisted up into a greedy grin - it was a look he had seen many times before, from many who felt they had their world at their fingertips. Only this time it is true, isn't it? 

  
"And that day has come. Today, I ascend to the Heavens as the salvation of this world. And as my faithful you too shall rise above the common scum and rule with an iron fist, so that they may be forced into the order of authority that they so crave." Samson expected the kinds of cheers and roars of victory he had heard when he lead the Templars from the Gallows. And yet, many of the Wardens remained silent - their faces void of any expression. The Behemoths and the most twisted of their red templars were too far gone to care for platitudes it seemed. Corypheus' grin turned quickly to a scowl, and he turned his back, beginning the long march through the dense woods towards the Temple. "Wardens, Templars, come." He barked, and they obeyed. 

  
Only a small contingent of men remained with Samson. The rest he was to meet further West into Orlais. But despite the orders of his God, he would not leave until he saw the ascension with his own eyes. Perhaps he will be punished - but it would make him part of history, to be the first struck down by a real God. 

  
Not bothering to give orders to his small squad, he began climbing up the steep lip of the valley wall, up past the treeline, stumbling on slick drifts of snow and hidden ice beneath. It took nearly an hour of strenuous climbing, and yet his muscles felt not fatigue. With a deep satisfaction, he perched on the edge of a tall ridge, eyes toward the Temple, and waited. 


	6. The Nightingale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Conclave is the end point of a long journey the Maker had set her on more than a decade ago. Here is a place she can finally lay down her burdens and rest her heavy heart.

_The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace._

 

To her, the verse was always spoken in Mauren's deep, level tones. She whispered it to her in the darkest hours of the night, as they clung to each other like rafts in an unending storm. _Did she know then the strength of this verse? Could she have known how it would shield me from despair?_  

 

Faith had borne her through the chaos of these years. Perhaps it was what the Maker had intended all along. How could this Conclave be anything but the beginning of true peace in Thedas? The Maker _must_ have placed her on the path that lead to this moment. Even Cassandra agreed with her. If that was not sign of the Maker's hand, she did not know what was. 

 

"Tell me why you believe we are here, right now, Leliana." Justinia always loved to ask such vague questions - and it had been no different while they had traveled the long road to the Conclave some weeks before. It was, she had to admit, a very nice way to pass the time on the Divine's all-too frequent journeys across Ferelden and Orlais. Whether she did it to grow and strengthen Leliana's faith, or to prevent another scolding on exposing herself to harm too often, was up for debate. 

 

"I believe we are here because the Maker has been speaking, and no one has been listening. We are here to deliver his message." Justinia had smirked at that - an expression that made her seem more far more human than Divine. It was what made her a true beacon for the people, and the greatest messenger for the Maker she had ever known. 

 

"And why do you believe you know what the message is, but the masses do not?" 

 

"He is not speaking in words, your Holiness. He speaks through his actions. And the message is clear to all who care to see." Justinia answered with a quizzical look, "The Hero of Ferelden, the brave, courageous woman who was ready to give her life for this world...she was a mage. The only Grey Warden known to purify herself from the Blight's evil, a mage. The Champion of Kirkwall, yet another mage. And...forgive me, your Holiness...but I...I should not be surprised if Andraste herself was a mage." 

 

"And what is the message you are hearing from these actions?" Justinia had asked, seemingly unfazed by the blasphemy her Left Hand had just spoken.

 

"That mages are not monsters to be feared and locked away. That mages can be the greatest of heroes if we allow them to be. Each of these mages was free of the Circle, free to do good for the world outside their stone prisons. What would have happened to the world if they had been caged? We are here to end this pointless war, to dissolve the Circles, to lead both the Templars and mages down a gentler path." Justinia nodded thoughtfully and paused to consider her words. Leliana always found it quite odd - and rather gratifying - that the leader of the Chantry, arguably the most powerful woman in Thedas, would ever even entertain her theories and thoughts on faith. 

 

"So, you say that the Maker hand-selected these mages to do great things for the world?" Justinia had questioned after a long, heavy silence. 

 

"Yes, your Holiness." 

 

"Did he not also select a Grey Warden warrior to deliver the killing blow to the Archdemon? Did he not select you or Cassandra to restore peace in a time of chaos? Did he not select me to lead the faithful? I simply wonder why you believe his selections in those admirable mages are significant, but not his selections in other matters."

 

"I...am not certain, your Holiness. I simply...I just know that the Maker chose me to be here for a reason. Why would he do so if my beliefs had no merit?"

 

It was always like this with Justinia. She would have an idea that was irrefutable in her head, but when spoken to the Divine seemed like the fantasies of a child.   _But it helps me to grow. Who better to test my faith than the chosen of the Maker herself?_

 

She had not realized how lost she had become in her own thoughts until she heard one of her agents clear his throat quite loudly, echoing through the long, narrow stone tunnel of the prison. It was a bit disgusting for a Chantry to serve dual purpose as a jail for thieves and thugs, but it was the only truly secure building in this rather poor excuse for a village.

 

"I'm sorry Regis. My mind was elsewhere. What news do you bring?" She had to admit, since their party had arrived safely in Haven, she had been loosening her grip a bit. The Conclave felt like the warm, inviting inn at the end of a long journey, a place she could lay her head down, if just for a moment.

 

"Just the regular status report my lady. Moral among the last arriving mages is high, though there are whispers of revenge plots against certain templars of the Ostwick and Ferelden Circles. Grennon assures us that these boasts are no more threatening than a standard bar fight."

 

"Most bar fights do not involve fireballs, I believe."

 

"These won't either with all the templars around, respectfully, ma'am."  Leliana nodded and waved her hand dismissively. Idle threats of young mages invigorated on freedom were a small enough threat, easily contained by Cullen's group of templars. He had even suggested that the Conclave could serve as "a wonderful training exercise" for some of the younger recruits. "There is significant unrest among the Mothers who were not invited to the Conclave. Our contacts report that Mother..."

 

"Taken care of. Josephine and the Divine have both personally written to all Chantry leaders of rank who were not...encouraged to attend."

 

"Then, ma'am, I believe that is all. The roads are clear and safe for all remaining guests. The people are quite hopeful that this will bring an end to the fighting, many openly supporting us. We have...no real threats, it would seem." Regis paused for a moment, wringing his hands nervously, "Truthfully, ma'am, I think the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for us to succeed. N-not that we won't still be keeping a strict watch, of course." It warmed her heart that her men felt the same as she. _I must not be entirely wrong about the Maker's intentions then, no?_

 

"I know, Regis. I believe the same thing. Go and take your dinner with everyone else before you resume your post. I don't think the world will notice." She gave him a rare smile before turning back to her work. Not that there was too much for her at the moment. Regis wasn't wrong - the lack of anything new coming out from her agents did make it truly feel all of Thedas was looking towards the Temple, waiting with bated breath.

 

Would the world know peace, or would it erupt into violence once more? Should I bother to sow seeds this season, or will they all just be burned? Should we use the mortar to repair our homes and barns, or build walls around what is left? These were the only concerns in any of her reports. _Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls. From these emerald waters doth life begin anew. Let the people fear no longer, let peace be what is wrought here._

 

She found her eyes drifting away from her reports. With things quieting down the past few weeks, her thoughts drifting more and more towards Mauren. She often caught herself staring off into the horizon or blankly at the wall without intending to. Flashes of nights they had shared, the softness of her skin, the peace in her embrace as they talked of small things. It was torturous how long there was to wait between letters. It hurt to not know where she was in the world, if she even still lived. She could be dead in the wilderness, and no one would ever find her...

 

 _Do you remember the story of Alindra and her lover, the soldier? You told it to me once, what seems like a lifetime ago. I barely knew you then. But there was something about you from the very beginning. Something that made me cling to your every word._  

 

The letters were kept in the same place. Safe box. Top-left drawer. She had locked them away to give her pause whenever the urge to read them for the hundredth time surfaced. It had not proven particularly effective.

 

_On clear nights, I stare into sky and look at the stars. I see Alindra and her soldier, and wonder if you might be elsewhere, gazing at those same stars, sharing that same memory._

 

Of course she had. Here, their constellation was directly above the Temple. It seemed fitting to be able to gaze upon a great monument of her faith, as well as her heart.

 

_I fall asleep, and pray that I will see you in my dreams. It is painfully lonely out here. I wish more than anything th-_

 

There was a surge of pain in her head. Her knee cracked against the hard stone floor as she was thrown violently into her desk. The wind was knocked from her lungs, the world swimming as flecks of stone and dust fell onto her face like droplets of rain. Before she could even question what had happened, the edges of her world grew black, as if she was floating further and further into a deep cavern, the entrance growing smaller...smaller...smaller...until all was dark.

 

* * *

 

 

"Leliana!" A voice echoed down to her from somewhere far above. 

 

"Leliana get up! Oh Andraste...please Leliana we need you!" The voice was so sad, her heart lurched and she wished nothing more than to reassure it all was well, she was fine, but it was impossible to move. 

 

"Who...?" She groaned, each sound she made a struggle to move through her throat.

 

"Oh thank the Maker. Leliana, get up, there...there is...there are...oh just get up!" She slowly recognized the voice. But where was she? A soiree? Had they been caught?

 

"Josie? What is happening? Where am I?"

 

"Oh Maker...Haven Leliana! You must see for yourself...I...I think it is impossible to describe." Josephine helped her to sit up against her desk. It felt like a hot knife going through her skull, and her eyes would not open. 

 

"Everything hurts Josie. I don't..."

 

"Leliana you must look at me. You are in no condition to go out there, but there is no choice right now. Do you understand? You must go." Josephine had always been a bit high strung, but she had never sounded so...afraid. She pried her eyes open as far as she could. The room was a blur, but she could make out Josephine's face, black lines trailing down her face.

 

"Josie...have you been crying?"

 

"You will be too, I'm afraid..." Josephine shook her head and reached her arms around her. "Come on, I will help you up as best I can. We must go now." Leliana struggled to get onto her feet without pulling Josephine down with her. Holding her close, Josephine helped steady her towards the stairs. It was just like when Mauren had helped her back to camp after she fell out of that tree, trying to find their way back to a group of elusive Dalish...

 

"All right Leliana, are you with me? You...you will need to brace yourself." 

 

"What happened Josie?"

 

"I...don't know." With that, the doors to the Chantry opened, piercing cold air and the stench of charred flesh crashing against her body like waves in a storm. With that, she was awake. And what she saw...

 

_Please...please let this be a dream. I simply fell asleep at my desk again, and this is just the Fade..._

 

The screams of terrified children, soldiers, Sisters, echoed against the valley walls. The plateau on which the Temple had stood laid barren, its ancient pines snapped and broken against the ground. Waves of people were running down the mountain road, away from the raging green fire that licked at the hollowed stones of the crumbling Temple. Behind them, shadowy forms she could not make out. And above...

 

The sky bled green. Someone had put it to the sword and the Fade poured out of its veins in thick green tendrils, spreading as blood against cloth across the sky. 

 

"Let those in, then close the gates behind them." She heard Cassandra's booming voice across the yard. "You do not think I know that? You do not think I want to save as many of our brothers and sisters as possible? But if you do not we all die, do you understand? Close. The. Gate." 

 

"Cassandra!" Josephine called out hoarsely. 

 

"Where have you been?" She snapped, marching towards them, "What happened Leliana? Are you hurt? Have the demons already come here?" _Demons...that is what they are running from..._

 

"No, no. Leliana was unconscious when I found her. She's still a bit out of it...I suppose the blast must have..."

 

"Cassandra..." she muttered weakly, "what is going on?" Cassandra's stone gaze softened. For a moment, she saw fear.

 

"I...had hoped _you_ knew." She said in defeat, and turned her gaze to the wound in the sky. 

 

For a small moment, it was almost peaceful as they gazed hopelessly up towards the night sky, green blood splattered across Alindra and her lover.

 

 


	7. The Prisoner

The shackles' metal grew cold around her wrists, and the Maker's fiery gaze spat out green fury that seared the flesh of her palm. 

 

What had she done to earn his scorn? Was it the sin of her birth? The sin of her doubt? For the shameful desires in her heart? They had taught her that in death, she would find her way to the Maker's side. But a gnawing suspicion had hinted for many years that she may not be welcome there. 

 

Thunder cracked far off in the distance, echoing beside the thud of a templar's armored footsteps down the Circle's endless, arching hallways. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now," a voice sounded, bits and pieces of it stolen and silenced from gushing winds between her ears. _But I have already died._

 

She opened her eyes to find a woman's sharp, angular face glaring down in disgust. _A spirit of judgement, here to test if I am worthy to join the Maker_. She looked towards the sky to find his throne in the Black City, but could see only stone walls and darkness. 

 

The spirit roughly grabbed her wrists and shook them in front of her face, "Explain _this_ ," it spat. Her palm tore open as she cried out in agony, and the Maker's fury poured out, sending waves of scorching fire down to her shoulder. In panic she tried to jerk away from the spirit's grasp for the relief of the cold stones beneath her. It scoffed at her struggles and threw her roughly to the ground, resuming its tense prowl around her. Silence fell between them, allowing time to gather her thoughts, and for the details of the room to come into focus.

 

There were four swords pointed at her neck, for one. There was the aching in her knees and throb in her head. The woman who lurked in a shadowed corner, occasionally revealed from the flicker of torchlight. The stiff metal maws of empty jail cells, awaiting prisoners to trap inside. The terror that suddenly welled in her chest. _No. No no no. I cannot be back there, please, I would rather be dead!_

 

"I...I can't." She finally blurted out, voice stuttering in fear, hoping to appease...whoever these people were. The spirit...the woman, turned back to her, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. Before she could think, she was lifted up by the scruff of her tunic, the woman's grip nearly choking her. 

 

"What do you mean, _you can't_?!" She demanded, and she would have said almost anything if her head wasn't too clouded to think of an explanation. 

 

"Cassandra, stop." The shadowed woman finally slinked out from her corner, placing a light hand on the other's shoulder. "We need her," she said gently. Her tone was the same as that of the Templar, Victoria, who reveled in coaxing naive apprentices into exaggerated confessions. Her captor - Cassandra, apparently - set her back to her feet, lips twitching into a snarl. She could see Cassandra's struggle with constraint through the raised, thick veins in her forearm. The woman was taller than her by a head - she must tower over even most men.

 

Her eyes fell to the crest on the chest plate of Cassandra's armor. At first breath, terror choked in her throat when she saw the familiar sword and flames. _But this is no templar. I have never seen the crest with an eye..._

 

"All of those people," Cassandra began, "why? What could you possibly have hoped to accomplish?"

 

"She is only a suspect, Cassandra. We don't know of her guilt," the shadowed woman cooed, sounding thoroughly unconvinced of her own words. She couldn't think of anything to say in her defense. What did she even last remember? Walking down a long hallway alone, arguing with Davell, her heart caught in her chest when she saw him. _The Conclave. What happened?_  

 

"The Most Holy...the templars...even her fellow mages Leliana - all dead! The magic we saw in Kirkwall was _nothing_ compared to this! I _never_ thought we would find a monster worse than that terrorist." 

 

"What do you mean, all dead?" She blurted out, not bothering to mask the panic in her voice. Surely that wasn't the case. Surely the woman meant something else...most dead, some dead, some kind of riot. So many capable men and women, no force could come through and just slaughter everyone.  As if to give her a painful reminder, her palm crackled and spat green flames. _That was not a dream, then. Could I have...? No - no, I've never been good at magic._

 

"You mean you don't know?" The cloaked woman called Leliana asked skeptically, taking a cautious step towards her. "It is in your best interest to be forthcoming with us, you understand. We know everything about you, Lieta Trevelyan." Her shocked expression seemed to please Leliana greatly, her eyes smiling wickedly. "Oh yes. That red hair of yours was a dead giveaway. The fine shoes you wear with the silver trim? Your family must have been so proud that their shameful mage daughter was invited to the Conclave to see the Divine, they couldn't let you humiliate them with worn old boots, no? Noble ties really are the only reason such an unaccomplished student would be invited...were you bitter? Was this your chance for revenge?"

 

Lieta hung her head in shame. Almost all of the words Leliana spoke were true, and it was terrifying anyone could gather such information just by the color of her hair. It made her almost wish that she _had_ done those horrible things. _At least then it would seem like I had some backbone._ But no, she was so eager for any chance to be in someone's good graces for once that she just accepted the fine clothes, apologized to her father for the sin of her birth - again - and went off to serve as another warm mage body that would say that the Circles had been a _great_ idea.

 

"I do not deny most of what you said," she began, "but Andraste help me, I have no idea what you are accusing me of." A sudden tremor around them shook dust and pebbles from the ceiling, tapping lightly on the stone floor. A voice barked muffled commands off in the distance. The soldiers lowered their swords and looked towards the ceiling with fear in their eyes. "Please, I must know...what did happen?"

 

Cassandra gave a resigned sigh, "It will just be easier to show you," she lamented, and grabbed Lieta by the arm, practically dragging her out of the dungeon. A quick gesture with her other hand and the other guards followed in suit, Leliana stalking in the shadows behind them. 

 

 _A prison in a Chantry?_ She had opened the door to the main hall and was greeted by a large statue of Andraste. It seemed wrong to make their intentions so blatant. _I should not have such thoughts about a house of the Maker._

 

Cassandra hesitated briefly by the wooden doors of the Chantry. They were utterly pathetic in size and grandeur compared to the intricately carved stone that framed the Chantry gates in Starkhaven. The grip on her arm stiffened as Cassandra shoved the doors open, and the world collided into her.  

 

The smell of smoke, blood, and rot assaulted her senses, forcing her to her knees, gagging. The scar on her hand crackled to life again, its green flames pulling her insides towards the sky where she saw...

 

"Maker..."

 

"It's called the Breach." Cassandra said somberly as she kneeled down beside her. Its bright green glare reflected against the stern woman's close-cropped, ink-black hair. It was beautiful, in a way. "The Mark on your hand seems to...respond to it somehow. As the Breach grows, so does your Mark. And it is killing you." Her alarm must have shown, as Cassandra continued quickly, "But there may be a way for you to use it to stop this before it is too late. For all of us." 

 

For the entirety of her life, Lieta had been trapped. Trapped by a family that took duty to the Maker to a dangerous extreme. Trapped by the walls of a Circle for decades. Trapped by a cloud of darkness that seemed to follow her wherever she went.  The brief freedom she enjoyed after the rebellions made her forced return to the Chantry even worse. The cloud had then settled permanently into her head, raining tears down her face as spontaneously as summer storms. But now, as she stared up into what could be the end of the world, she felt it lift. She felt...alive.

 

"If I can help, I will. Whatever it takes." Cassandra peered into her eyes, and surely if there had been any deception in her words, she would have found it then.

 

"So you mean to help, willingly?" She asked with no small amount of skepticism. Lieta nodded emphatically, and the hard angles of Cassandra's face softened a bit, the corner of her lip turning up in what hinted at a smile. "Perhaps I have misjudged you, then." She extended a hand to help Lieta up, and stood tall beside her as they turned to face down a long row of faces that looked upon her in disgust.

 

Lieta could not help but take a long, deep breath of the putrid air, and smile.  


	8. The Dreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas wrestles with whether to stay or go, and the crude jokes of a particular dwarf might be pushing him towards the latter.

Solas had just begun to catch his breath when another seam split in the fabric of the air before him. He gripped his staff mournfully, preparing. It was the same every time. Next, you waited helplessly while the tear grew wider and wider, seeping its green blood across the sky's woven veil - horrific creatures were coming, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. But unexpectedly, all would grow quiet for a small moment. Just long enough for you to think perhaps nothing was on the other side.

 

And then the maws of the Fade would screech open, and hordes of spirits just as frightened as you would find themselves trapped in a world they did not recognize and could not reconcile. As he destroyed them, one by one, he mourned. "Ir abelas, ma falon," he prayed as he willed jagged clusters of razor-sharp ice through the veil, impaling the twisted form of a once peaceful spirit. An arrow zipped by dangerously close to his head, right into the heart of the ice cluster, shattering it, and the spirit, into hundreds of tiny shards that drifted gracefully to the ground.

 

"Oh hell yeah, Solas did you _see_ that shit?" He groaned and rolled his eyes. _Do all dwarves have so little respect for creatures of the Fade?_

 

"Your arrow narrowly missed my skull, how could I not have?" He spat back, somewhat ashamed at his lack of composure. The ignorance of the beings who now inhabited this world was proving too much to bear at times. 

 

"Thought you might be too busy looking all gloom and doom over there. You gotta learn to take some joy in the little things, my friend. Like exploding bits of Fade monster, for example." The dwarf chuckled to himself and latched his mechanical contraption back over his shoulder. It was a monstrous excuse for a bow. But that hadn't stopped him from picking it up out of curiosity while Varric slept one night. It weighed more than a person, which is perhaps why he had introduced it as if it were his traveling companion rather than a brutish weapon.

 

"I apologize for not finding the slaughter of hapless creatures amusing as you do, Child of the Stone." 

 

"Those hapless creatures have been within an inch of tearing your face off about twelve times now, you know. And you've really gotta cool it with this "child of the stone" shit. I'm a surface dwarf - we're above all of that Stone shit. Haha...get it?" Solas rolled his eyes again. "Oh lighten up Chuckles. You're making Bianca twitchy." _If all dwarves are like this now, perhaps elves aren't the ones who have fallen furthest._

 

But putting up with the crassness of one man was a small enough annoyance to pay for his good fortune. 

 

Mythal's gift was surely destroyed in the explosion not three days past. What had he expected to happen? That things would go as planned? As he watched his ancient handiwork unravel in the sky, he cursed the names of Dirthamen and Andruil, of Daern'thal and Geldauren. This was their fault, and yet he would receive all the blame by trying to fix their mess - to save them and the world from the consequences of their actions. 

 

The stones of the ruined temple had been replaced with glaciers of red lyrium. He could almost hear the anguished cries of those ancient ancestors within. He mourned for their souls, for the loss of their knowledge. Each he passed, he destroyed, like putting down a faithful, but rabid dog. There was no sign of the Magister. Had he achieved his goal? This wasn't how Solas had pictured it. It was much too chaotic. 

 

He'd heard voices and footsteps coming from a floor below him, and almost turned back in defeat to come up with another plan before he was caught sneaking about. But there were shouts of alarm, and he hoped...

 

The Veil shimmered before them. Something was pressing from the other side, slowly ripping the seam between worlds. And as the fabric tore, a human girl stumbled out, the shadowed form of a woman behind her, hand held up high as if reaching for something. Then she was gone. The girl, however, remained. It couldn't be - a human had existed in the Fade, and came back alive, unchanged. Or so he had thought, until he saw the sputtering green light upon her palm. 

 

It would be a lie to say he knew exactly what he was looking at - but it was the only lead he had. So he tailed the soldiers that carried her back to the small human settlement, impressed a commander by helping kill some corrupted spirits, made up a tale about his "studies" in the Fade, and just like that he had access to their most incriminating suspect. _It's almost impressive how they seem so in command when they don't understand the first thing about what is happening._

 

To everyone else, the mark on her hand was just some scar. A pity they could not recognize the strange beauty of Mythal's vallaslin. This girl was perhaps the symbol's first and only forced bearer. _She is the key. This time, it will work._  

 

Varric joined him as he gazed out across the valley. Leliana had brought them the good news: the girl had awakened, and was coming this way. "She's not much of a fighter. Guard her with your lives...at least until she seals the Breach." That human was at least...honest in her deception. 

 

Chunks of Fade rock continued to fall from the sky at a steady pace. Three days of raining demons, and somehow they were already used to it. The tremors on impact barely even registered to him anymore. "There's our girl." Varric noted, pointing at two small shadows treading carefully across a path of ice. "Hope Cassandra's ready for that pack of demons up ahead of them. It's nice to watch someone else do the fighting every once in a while." 

 

It was only two small wraiths. He could see Cassandra expertly deflecting their blows back at them, and the girl's poorly aimed spells. He doubted if she had landed a single blow before Cassandra felled them both. "Creators, I hope we can get to the Breach without her dying on us." He cringed at the use of such a basic Dalish expletive, but it sold the act quite well. 

 

"Maybe we should...ah crap." Solas turned to see yet another seam ripping in the air before them. "It never ends..." Varric grumbled, unlatching his crossbow and notching an arrow. 

 

"Ir abelas," Solas began, and as the first spirit erupted from the tear the slaughter continued. 

 

The first wraiths went down easily enough. He felt far less guilt impaling these vultures on shards of ice. The wind grew flat and silent as he hardened the air around him and the dwarf, the wraiths' faint blows dissipating across it. He strafed left, lining himself up, and summoned winds from the coldest region of the Fade he knew, hurtling him safely through the wraiths, leaving them encased in frozen prisons. The dwarf wasted no time in repeating his new favorite move, shattering the middle one, its shards blasting in a wide radius, cracking the other two that were easily finished off with a quick blow from Solas' staff. 

 

It would have been too good of a day if that was the end of it. While they had been occupied, a larger shadow grew behind the split in the Veil. The rush of burning air nearly scalded his hands - it was easy to forget just how hot a pillar of flame was. "Brace yourself!" He called out uselessly to the dwarf. He shouldn't have wasted his dampening barrier on the pathetic wraiths...

 

As soon as the twisted spirit - now consumed with flaming rage - erupted from the seam, Solas froze the air around it, encasing it in a thin sheet of ice, far weaker than the power he had used on the wraiths. "Don't shoot it!" He called out too late. An arrow blew past and punctured the demon. It only seemed to make it more angry.

 

"Ahhh fuck!" The dwarf shouted, uncharacteristic fear hanging on the edges of his voice. Do you see now why you should take this more seriously, fool? Solas turned and ran as far to the edge of cliff as he could, Varric throwing another strange mechanical contraption at their foe followed up with an arrow to the creature's face. It didn't care. The searing heat of its body was a weapon in itself, and the flames it spat broke the last of the hardened air around them. He was out of tricks. _I could outrun the dwarf. Flee. Try again somewhere else..._

 

The demon readied another ball of flame, and Solas turned to run - straight into the shield of Cassandra. "Out of the way!" She shouted, shoving him to the side carelessly and crouched in front of Varric, deflecting the flame and likely saving his life.  Sweat soaked her face and the neck of her tunic, but with no hesitation she lunged towards the demon, heavy shield raised as if it was nothing. He admired her ferocity, but swords were a poor weapon against fire, and plate a poor defense. 

 

The wind grew flat and silent around them. He was first astonished at how he could have accidentally created a barrier with his energy so low. But the girl showed up at his side, and he realized how many millenia it had been since another had used magic on his behalf. The air crackled and stiffened the hair of his neck and arms, the girl forming a bolt inside of the demon, stunning it while Cassandra delivered a piercing blow. Each of their postures relaxed for a moment. But another shadow was growing behind the seam, Cassandra readied her shield, and victory would never come unless...

 

"Quickly!" He shouted, grabbing the girl's marked hand and thrusting it towards the tear. And this time, it responded. 

 

A tangle of threads erupted from the mark, tethering themselves to the bottom of the seam, twisting and travelling up until all was stitched back in place and the remaining mists of the Fade burst as they tried to push back through. The girl recoiled back, clutching her hand as if in pain.

 

Solas supported her back to her feet, and gave her the first genuine smile of his newly awakened life. _This is the key. This is how I will save the world._

 

 


	9. The Nightingale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana does not particularly care for alone time with the Inquisition’s Commander…

Leliana had not taken a breath since it happened. Stopping to rest meant thoughts could catch up with her. Sleep meant reliving it in the Fade. Three days had passed, and the only relief she had found was in the silent blackness at the bottom Josie's wine cask.

 

She knew what she was doing, and that eventually she would have to face it. But for now, with chunks of hurtling green stone falling from the Fade, demons ravaging the Valley, and the screams and cries of their people, there was plenty to distract her, and plenty to justify her decision. How could she have time to reconcile her feelings when people are dying? Better to drink the pain away and keep working.

 

Their noble mage, a Trevelyan, had been a most pleasant piece of work to unravel. It was like a game: a race to identify her before someone else came to claim responsibility for her. Their silent, sulking elven apostate studying the mark on her hand had provided an excellent sounding board for her thoughts. It was about the most concrete use she had found for him so far. Cassandra seemed to feel the same, though she was more prone to _yelling_ her frustrations at the elf. 

 

"So what do we know of her for certain so far? What can we observe directly? Red hair, that's a start. She's no young girl that's clear...in her thirties perhaps? Her robes are simple. Pious, one might call them. A Chantry sister?" 

 

"No." It had been the apostate's first word to her since his fortuitous arrival. She paused, waiting for an elaboration that did not come. The elf simply continued holding the woman's hand, tracing patterns even her spymaster's eyes couldn't see on her palm. 

 

"And what makes you so certain of that?" She asked with more than a touch of irritation bristling her voice. Was he toying with her? _Once I have identified our suspect, you're next, elf._

 

"She is a mage." He once again offered no details. She clenched her jaw and reflexively reached for the hilt of a dagger hidden at her waist.

 

"I do not have time for your games! You came here to help did you not? So help. How do you know?" 

 

"I am a mage just as she. For us connected to the Fade, her status as a mage is as clear as the color of her hair. I did not specify because that is the most detailed explanation I can offer."

 

"Fine," she growled, releasing a firm tenseness she hadn't realized she'd been holding "So, she's a mage. Simple robes, new, you can tell by the thread on the hem," her eyes continued drifting down, "Ohhh but look at these beauties!" The woman's shoes had finally caught Leliana's eye, and she knelt down by her feet, running a finger across their edges. "This is a true silver trimming, and I believe that these are amethysts they've embedded along the edges! Not the finest jewel, but still, quite indulgent for anyone..." She trailed off, standing up and pacing in front of their unconscious prisoner and the elf. 

 

"She could not be with the rebels, not with those shoes. Could be a Loyalist, I suppose. But still, she must be from a wealthy house regardless. Perhaps a noble? That would certainly make this easier. We know of the nobles who were invited to the Conclave..." She paused again, running through the several dozen houses in attendance.  

 

"Ah! Of course! Red hair, Chantry robes, noble house, she looks to be the appropriate age. This is a Trevelyan, I'd stake my life on it. Fanatical Chantry supporters. They tried to keep their mage daughter a secret when she came into her magic. After the Circles dissolved they couldn't put her in a Chantry fast enough. What would everyone think if they knew?" She turned to look at Solas, needing to share her triumph with _someone_. To her surprise, Solas actually looked mildly interested. 

 

"That is an impressive amount of knowledge to have on hand. How do you know so much of these matters?"

 

"I just do," she had smirked, "that is the most detailed explanation I can offer." Solas had surprised her again, by returning a smile and nodding in concession.

 

After three excruciating days of uncertainty, the prisoner - Lieta - had finally awoken. Solas then finally proved himself useful with his theories on her mark, yet was frustratingly vague. She'd tried to pry out what clan he belonged to, but he insisted upon no formal ties, and seemed rather offended by the notion.  _Where else does an elf possibly come from?_ Her lack of contacts among the elves was an embarrassing hole in her network. Their culture may as well have been the Qun for all she knew of it. 

 

Regardless, he had proposed that the mark on her hand could somehow seal the rifts. They'd pelted and prodded him with questions, but his answers consistently boiled down to the same thing: "I saw it in the Fade." There was no way to verify, and no way to refute. Finally she'd given up - did it even matter? They were desperate, and time was short. She'd try anything. 

 

They had tried to secure a path to the ruins of the Temple, but when demons could come falling from the sky or a rift could open up in the middle of your barricade, their success was varied at best. A consistently clear route was impossible. They tried anyway. What else was there to do? Inaction decreased morale more than death, Cullen had reported. It seemed impossible to believe it could all be over soon; whether that was with the end of the world or with Lieta's magic hand sealing the Breach. 

 

She'd had to bring her bow out of retirement to bring the news to the Commander, and clear a path for the Prisoner. She missed the thrill of combat, living vicariously through her agents while poring over their reports.

 

She'd finally come to accept she'd never reclaim the glory days of traveling and fighting with Mauren and Alistair. Their days filled with travel, combat, and tests of skill - nights with laughter, drinks, and the feel of Mauren's lips pressed yearningly against hers. 

 

On the road to their furthest outpost, she tried to pretend she was back there. Drawing her bow against the first pack of demons she encountered, she imagined they were darkspawn, and the wind was Mauren was at her side, shielding her. It had been a violent and brutal time to be certain, but things were black and white. These days, conflict was not so simple.

 

She was out of practice. Though her arrows flew with precision, her shoulder soon ached, and fingers throbbed. Had the drawstring always been so tight? Regardless, she'd not been a killer for decades to fall to untrained demon spawn now. How many men had she felled in her time? How many had been at the behest of the Divine? 

 

With relief, she'd made it to their front camp - housed on a long bridge to decrease chances of a rift opening on top of them - before her fingers were rubbed bloody and raw.  

 

"I suppose it was foolish of me to be worried about you," Cullen greeted her with a tired smile, handing her a report from their scouts. She accepted them with a forced smirk. The air between them was always thick with unspoken words, and she did her best to avoid time alone with him whenever possible. In truth, she had risked encountering more demons by taking the long route toward the forward camp, hoping to give Cassandra the Prisoner time to catch up. If she had to endure one more awkward glance from the Commander, she would snap and force him to speak his mind. Increasing her chances of death was preferable.

 

_You know I know, so by Andraste just SAY IT._

 

Instead, she lazily replied with something about it taking more than a couple of demons to take her down. 

 

If Mauren didn't have a soft spot for their friend, she would have forced the awkwardness out of him from the start. _Yes, I fucked the woman you loved for years. Please, say your piece about it and let's move on. Or did you just want details about what it was like, hm?_

 

The thought brought a bitter taste to her mouth. Cullen didn't deserve that spite from her. She'd seen him at his lowest, seen what his face look like wracked with pain and tears. Her heart broke for him every day. _It's just frustration. He's a good man, and just your presence causes him pain. There's nothing either of you can do about it._

 

But everyday she had to endure it - his eyes lingering on her for just a second too long. Breath caught in his throat at the end of a conversation, as if to finally ask, painful in his desire to clear the air.  _"I'm sorry Leliana, the last time you saw me, please know that is not the man I am now. I hope you can think better of me." That's all you have to say!_

 

Mauren pitied him, as did she. How did he never notice her...preference for women? Or did it just not make a difference either way? 

 

"You don't understand what it's like in a Tower," Mauren had told her once, "There's no such thing as a real relationship there. It's more like...brief trysts. So my tastes had no bearing on Cullen's chances, do you see?"

 

She did not see, but it was more reason for her to despise the entire idea of Circles. 

 

Cullen cleared his throat awkwardly, looking out across the bridge, standing stiffer than a bard straight out of university. His breath caught in his throat as if to speak. "Are you out of your _mind,_ spymaster?" The harpy screech of the Chancellor echoed across the valley. Leliana sighed in relief. 


	10. The Vagabond

Anders sighed, standing up from the mage's bedside and rolling his shoulders, working the stiffness out. The only light came from a grimy lantern, contouring everything it touched with deep shadows - even through the fabric of his shirt she could see the knotted muscles gliding beneath his skin. He'd not left the girl's side for hours, though it was always difficult to tell the time of day down in the city's dredges. 

 

She was only the latest in a wave of injured, friendless, terrified runaways from the Circle, but she was the youngest. Everything was getting worse, and Anders' paranoia was growing. 

 

Well, that's what Varric called it anyway. But he didn't spend everyday finding traumatized apostates in the gutters. If he would see even a minute of what they went through, he'd understand paranoia in Kirkwall was just being practical. She never pressed the issue. There was something in Varric's voice that lead her to suspect he'd seen enough heartbreak for one lifetime.

 

"Ah, you're still here." Anders' voice was carried by the high ceilings and cavernous walls of his clinic. As he turned to face her, the lantern's low amber light crept deep shadows under his eyes and lined each crease through his brow.

 

"I was worried," she stumbled, caught off-guard by his sudden attention, "about the girl, I mean." It was only a half-lie. He frowned, glancing back at the girl's bedside. 

 

"You have good cause to be. Even if the Maker brings her through this, she'll be left with more than just physical scars." He sighed again and dragged himself over to his desk - a plank of wood across two crates - hunching over scraps of parchment that comprised his latest project. His hair parted and she could just see the nape of his neck. She shivered. 

 

"What...that's it? Usually this is about the time you go off into a particularly articulate rant about the Circle." He scoffed, glancing up at her with a smirk that carried to his eyes. A flash of heat coursed through her, her palms beginning to sweat. _What am I, some blushing Chantry virgin?_

 

"Usually you'd be right but today has been...exceptionally trying. If you come back by tomorrow morning, maybe I'll make it up to you." An invitation. Did that mean he enjoyed her being there? Just when she thought she'd understood him, he'd grow cold towards her. 

 

_"I hate to break it to you lover-girl, but no red-blooded man would turn away all of this," Isabella gestured up and down Arenth's body, "unless he wasn't interested." She smirked and looked at her suggestively, "He must only pop one for men. That's the only rational explanation I have."_

 

The young apostate girl they had found in the sewer today had been beaten and half-starved. Her lungs rattled with pneumonia, the tips of her toes like nubs of coal. She would likely die before the sun came up again. This morning had been her last sunrise. Her unconscious mind would not even let her see her last stars. And yet Arenth was consumed with thoughts of Anders. Her body laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

 

"A private joke?" Anders asked with his characteristic amusement, "Care to share with the rest of us?" He gestured to the rest of the clinic's unconscious or sleeping population. 

 

"I was just thinking of a joke Varric told me earlier. He'd hate it if I spoiled it for you." She often wondered where she learned to lie so quickly. "Come, I'll at least help you clean up before I go." The clinic was a wreck. It always was. Each day brought more patients than Anders could see. His face wracked with guilt when he had to turn a sick child away tore at her heart, and yet endeared her even more towards him. _I have never known anyone with such passion. Is that what it is? Does passion beget passion?_

 

Over the past months, she'd spent more and more time aiding him in the clinic. If she cared to sort through the tempest of emotions storming within her, perhaps she could decipher if it was to deal with the guilt of driving Carver to the Templars, of causing her mother to lose another child, of Fenris' constant spite, of her unrequited feelings, or the number of nameless strangers she'd invited to her bed.

 

They fell into a comfortable silence as they worked. It was pointless.Traffic from the streets above often shook the roof, leaving a daily fine layer of dust and dirt. Anders often lamented about the putrid, humid air in Darktown. It was hard for patients to get well when they were constantly sneezing and coughing.

 

But they tried anyway. It was better than giving up. She collected stray rolls bandages, placing them in a crate on his makeshift desk of splintered, dusty wood. _...where I was kept for three days in solitude and silence. It was maddening. It's as if they wanted me to become an abomination - at least then there would have been someone to talk to. Just when I thought I could not take another day, he..._ Fresh ink glittering from a scrap of parchment caught her eye. Anders had mentioned he was working on something. Picking up the parchment she continued reading, squinting to decipher the words in the dim light.

 

_...he had finally come. Ser Thrask had heard of my plight. It was the first time a Templar had looked upon me with empathy. I could not stop myself from crying. As if the little boy inside of me had finally found someone to comfort him. It is strange to say, a grown man, I know, but I refuse to be ashamed. I will not tarnish this one good memory of the Circle with guilt. It is mine, and no one can take it from me. -Daron Huntsmith, taken at age six._

 

"That's not done yet, you know." Anders' voice vibrated beside her ear.

 

Her warrior's reflexes stopped just short from elbowing Anders square in his ribcage. 

 

"Maker Anders, you can't sneak up on me like that. Next time you may not be so lucky." 

 

"My dear, it would be a great honor to be floored by the mightiest mercenary in Kirkwall." He plucked the parchment from her hand, moving to stand beside her and arranging the various scraps into a sloppy pile on his desk. "In any case, as I said, it's not done yet."

 

"Are you going to tell me what it is?" Anders paused, looking at her curiously, with a far more serious expression, flickering lamplight dancing shadows across his face.

 

From their first words, Arenth felt at ease with him. They'd had no need for the awkward phase of figuring out a new acquaintance. His gestures, his humor, his expressions; they all made sense from the start.

 

But as he looked at her now, it seemed as if it was all a prelude. In the amber of his eyes now was something deeper, something she'd thought she understood before, but now realized was embarrassingly mistaken. He was trying to _see_ her.

 

How often did she consider the same? Anders was a Grey Warden, and she'd nearly forgotten. An entire chapter of his life that she never considered. 

 

"It's a...collection of sorts. A record of the stories of the apostates we see, in their own words. A voice, a way to make their hurts be known." He turned his gaze away from her, a flush spreading through his cheeks. He wiped his hands on the cloth of his tunic. "I...wasn't certain what you would think of the idea."

 

"I think it's marvelous." She picked up another scrap, curious.

 

_We were both too shy to show affection in public, but it was in his eyes. In the way his hand would linger on mine when he returned my change. The sound of his laughter when I tried to ease his day with poor jokes._

 

_We were just kids. I grew into my magic late. I do not know if it was a blessing or a curse to have known so many years of happiness before that day._

 

_We couldn't even write each other. All I could think was that he was moving on with his life, with another girl who should have been me. Now I am free, but I cannot bear to ask after him. What would it matter anyway? This story has no happy ending._

 

_-Yllda Baroque, taken at age fourteen_

 

"That one is far milder than many I've heard." Anders said sadly, his voice deep, "But it hurts more somehow." Arenth looked up at him. His eyes were wet, glinting in the lamplight. It was involuntary to reach her hand to his face. Perhaps it was involuntary for him to lean into it. The stubble of his beard was rough against her palm. 

 

She did not remember how she ended up in his arms. It wasn't the first time they had embraced but...

 

He pulled her against him, his thumb stroking the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling their hips together. She stroked her hand down the length of his back, feeling the tautness of the muscles beneath it. He exhaled deeply, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his mouth parted slightly against her skin.  There was nothing else but the ferocity of her desire, pooling in waves of heat between her thighs. Her actions were automatic as she reached to pull his lips closer to hers. She could feel the heat of his breath as she opened her mouth to his.

 

"No." He said in anguish, pushing her away. "I'm sorry, Ar-Hawke. I can't..." 

 

"Why? What's wrong?" She growled in frustration, clenching her fists. 

 

"I've told you. I will only hurt you. I could never live with myself if I did that." 

 

"What if I don't care?" Her nails had punctured the skin of her palms, small droplets of blood welling beneath them. "Forget it. I shouldn't keep pressing you. It won't happen again." 

 

She didn't wait for his response. She didn't look back to see if he was even hurt by her words. It would never matter.

 

Isabella would help her find another suitable replacement for the night.  

 

* * *

 

 

Arenth rarely reflected on the days after the Chantry explosion. As she gazed on Anders' sleeping form, she wished she could, just for one action, forget morals. It could be so easy to be happy again.

 

They coursed a plan of action for her, together. Neither had any idea where the Wardens were these days. Not a single innkeep or bartender seemed to know either. Ravens to Vigil's Keep and Weisshaupt came back with no response. Anders tried to explain that's just how things were. No darkspawn, Wardens go quiet. _"Despite being heroes and all that, people don't seem to like us very much. Probably because they associate us with death and destruction, but you know how these things go."_

 

But even he agreed complete silence from Vigil's Keep was odd. So she would travel there to investigate. Alone. 

 

The thought of solitude was strange. She'd never considered that for her entire life, there had always been someone else beside her. She'd been hailed as a lone Champion, but none of that would have been possible without the rest of them. And yet only three years past they were all but forgotten legends. Except for Anders, of course. 

 

 _If anyone can do this, it's you love_ , Anders had reassured her. How easy to forget the hundreds of innocents he had murdered in those moments.

 

He would travel with her as far as Lothering. From there, she would be alone. 

 

Anders stirred beside her, propping himself up groggily on his elbow. The sun was peeking through the gaps in their lean-to, perched against a rock somewhere near Ostagar. He hadn't had a chance to shave in some time. Each morning he ran his hand across his beard as though it were a surprise to wake up to. 

 

"I miss your jawline." She teased, gently pushing him with her leg. 

 

"And I miss our bed in Kirkwall, but alas, here we are." He gazed out across the horizon - the treeline visible for miles from the mountain ridge they'd camped on. 

 

"What will you do, while I'm gone?" They had spent weeks planning out her course, but never spoke of his. He glanced up at her, squinting against the light of the sun. 

 

"Find redemption, if there is any in this world to spare." Arenth studied his face. The strands of grey hair that glimmered in the sunlight. The lines of worry now permanently carved into his face. His eyes, a dull, muddied brown. _How am I just now seeing this? Have I been asleep these past years?_ "You don't say it, Arenth. But if there is anything in this life I regret, it is losing your faith in me." He looked back towards the horizon, smirking. "And I have many regrets, believe me." 

 

"Anders I...love you." They were the only words to say. 

 

"Maker willing, the next time I see you, you will be able to say that without so much pain." 


	11. The Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lieta Trevelyan barely had the skills to pass her Harrowing. Now with the burden of saving the world on her hand, she has no choice but to forget the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So totally love at first sight. For sure.
> 
> This is a long one!

"You're getting quite good at this." 

 

The elf's words as she stitched closed the last rift stuck with her longer than reason should allow. It wasn't that she'd never been complimented before it just...felt different coming from someone who had never known her, a stranger. A polite stranger, but one with no possible ulterior motive. He had no reason to say it if it wasn't true, did he? 

 

"Open the gates!" Cassandra bellowed at the awe-struck guards. Their faces battled between expressions of shock and disgust as Lieta passed between them and into the forward camp.

 

 _You're getting quite good at this._ The words repeated as her hand crackled and spat green sparks. The dwarf looked upon her with compassion, the elf with curiosity, the Seeker with caution, the shadowed woman with suspicion, and a Chantry brother with utter loathing. Never in her life had she ever felt so...regarded. The attention brought a strange sensation; as if she was more acutely aware of her body in space. The feeling of her arms just hanging at her side, the straightness of her back, whether she was making a normal expression or grimacing against the biting cold. 

 

The camp wasn't what she would have pictured. In stories, they covered several leagues, dozens of banners of proud arls curling lazily in the wind. You could expect to hear the whinny of horses, the laughter of men around a spit, the clash of swords in the practice yard. But this camp was a few dozen soldiers cramped on a long-narrow bridge, enclosed by steep ridges of sharpened rock that bore down on them like the fangs of a great beast. There were beds of wounded men, groaning in agony, a healer in blood-soaked white robes attending them. And above it all the chaos of a large skirmish outside of the gates. The screech of demons, shouts of commanders, the release of a dozen arrows, the faint blast of a warhorn. 

 

"Good, you've arrived." The veiled woman said, approaching them swiftly. The whites of her eyes were a faint red, and beneath them were deep bags and dark circles. "The Commander has just rejoined the front line. There's a bit of a roadblock between us and..."

 

"Is this the prisoner?" The man in Chantry clerk robes charged his way past soldiers, glowering. "Chain her, and let us retreat to Val Royeaux immediately." He smelled of sweat and smoke, robes stained with blood, soot, and Maker knows what else. A far cry from what she was accustomed to from a man of the cloth. 

 

"We first go to close the Breach, Chancellor. Perhaps then we will decide her fate." Leliana said pointedly, her eyes like daggers. Surprisingly to Lieta, the man did not balk. Her time in the Chantry taught her that men always bowed to the Sisters. Unfortunate for her, being the only person of lesser status than them. The Lord and Lady Trevelyan encouraged their behavior. _"Your parents mean well," The Mother said as she delicately placed antiseptic on laceration across her cheek, "they know magic is a cruel fate, and are trying any means to relieve you of its burden. They fear for you without the safety of the Circle. They are misguided but...this is how they show they care for your welfare."_

 

"I've told you, this plan is foolishness. You cannot let the only suspect you have go where she could run at any point. If she...if she is the one who did this..." His hands started trembling, and he clenched the sides of his robes, "if she is capable of this destruction on her own, you must take her while she is weak before she destroys us all." Fear painted his face as he glanced over his shoulder towards the battlefield.

 

 _You're getting quite good at this._ Did she even have that power? Did even she know for certain she didn't destroy the Conclave...? It was inconceivable and yet if she had the power to seal rifts then maybe...

 

"Don't talk about the girl as if she's not standing right here." Varric interrupted with exasperation, giving her another look as if he was truly sorry. She wasn't sure what to make of it. 

 

"Now is not the time Varric." Cassandra spat, "Chancellor Roderick, we are taking the prisoner and closing the Breach. Then we will be more than happy to listen to your ravings. For now, however, there is a hole in the sky, or have you not noticed?" 

 

"Seeker, I beg you. We must retreat, before more lives are lost. Our cause here is hopeless. The best we can do is retreat, regroup and hope we get enough time to make _rational_ decisions."

 

"Chancellor my scouts have been reporting rifts opening as far as the Dales." Leliana interjected,  "It's only been three days - not even enough time for birds to get here from further West. Where would you propose we go?"

 

"To Val Royeaux, where you can lend voice to deciding on a new Divine who will guide us..."

 

"There is _no time_ for this Chancellor. Either help us fix this problem _now_ , or leave." Cassandra's eyes had narrowed dangerously, using her height to tower over the poor Chantry clerk.  It was strikingly similar to the ways she had studied posturing behavior in animals. Roderick backed down, malice still in his eyes. "Let us go meet Cullen en route."

 

Leliana nodded in agreement, "It is the best way to keep Trevelyan protected." As if finally remembering she was there, Leliana turned to her, giving curt orders, "We need you alive and well at the Breach, understand? Stay behind them and near the Commander until we've cleared a path. Wait for Cassandra to come back and escort you. Will you follow?" If it weren't for the sounds of clashing metal interspersed with occasional screams coming from the front lines, Lieta may have felt it appropriate to be offended. As it was, it all seemed like rather practical advice. 

 

"Whatever I need to do, I will." 

 

"Good." Leliana turned back to Cassandra, "I'll gather my scouts and secure the Temple."

 

Finally, Lieta was heading to witness the battle that had been echoing down the valley. The first thing that struck her as the gates opened was how much warmer it was. Snow had melted, covering the stone floors of the ruined temple with a sludge of dirt, blood, and water. Below the Commander's post lay wide-eyed corpses of men whose last screams she'd probably heard. Hordes of rabid demons crawled through the hills like ants swarming a forgotten crumb of food. Somewhere in the chaos, Leliana was miraculously leading a group of scouts through those hills without being consumed. _Who are these people?_

 

Before this day, she had never seen battle up close, only read about it in books, or heard of it from elder Enchanters who had served during the Blight. They never talked about the smell; a revolting mixture of body odor, fear, thick blood, and rot. No book romanticized the incessant buzz of insects around the dead, the feel under your boot as you crossed stray bits of scalp or bone. 

 

But neither did they mention how connected everything felt. Shared tragedy tethered people to one another as nothing else she had experienced. As they approached the Commander - a stranger to her - she felt like they were banded together, even as he looked upon her with thinly veiled disdain.

 

"Commander Cullen, how is the fight?" Cassandra asked on their approach. He snorted, brow furrowed.

 

"About as well as you can see. We need you to get up there and see -" He glanced towards Lieta, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly, "- if there is anything you can do to stem the tide of these demons. My men are doing all they can but we are losing more by the minute." 

 

"We need a path Commander. The Prisoner is to stay here with you until we get one. It's time for the final push." He nodded, looking resigned. His eyes bore the same haunted look as Leliana's. He unhooked a small horn from his belt, sounding out one long note followed by a short, terse one. Cassandra, Varric, and Solas made their way headfirst into the fray. Observing them, she could see they possessed far more skill than the infantry around them. How were such warriors made?

 

Three soldiers with decorated pauldrons ascended to the Command post, saluting Cullen and standing at attention. 

 

"Take your squads and make a clear path for the Seeker and her party to the temple. This one," he pointed back towards Lieta without a glance, "needs to stay protected until she reaches the Breach." The soldiers saluted wordlessly and turned on their heel back towards the battlefront. 

 

"Did you do it?" The Commander said stoically, avoiding her gaze. His eyes were hard, and she could see the muscles of his jaw flex as he clenched his teeth. 

 

"I don't know." He responded by grunting and crossing his arms in front of his chest, gazing over the battlefield silently. She matched his posture, feeling worse than useless as more men fell below her - dying for someone they didn't know at best or wanted to kill themselves at worst. _If I make it through this...I will fight. This is the last time I stand aside while others fight battles that should be mine._

 

* * *

 

 

From up close, the Breach looked as if it enveloped the entire sky. Just barely through the shifting swirls of green could she make out the constellation of the tragic figure of Alindra and her soldier. 

 

"Solas...are you certain I can close that?" She asked, not bothering to mask the rising panic in her chest. It was far colder here than the battlefield. She wrapped her arms around herself to cover her bare frozen hands.

 

"Reasonably so." The elf said calmly, walking lightly beside her down the temple steps. At her silence, he raised his eyebrows, a laugh hiding behind his lips, "I'm sorry, perhaps this is not the best time for jesting. You will not be closing the entire Breach - not even your status as a mage can help that I'm afraid. You are simply to close the smaller, core Rift that is destabilizing the Breach, ripping it further apart." Though she did not understand in the least, she nodded. 

 

The elf gave a small bow towards her, walking ahead to join the Seeker in a quiet, brief conversation. The angles of her face hardened at his words. "There will be demons, ready yourselves!" She called out, voice booming across the crater, bouncing back and forth between the jagged walls. Leliana's scouts readied arrows from their hidden positions in the ruined temple. The small company of soldiers the Commander could spare unsheathed swords, some with trembling hands, dancing reflected green light across the temple walls.

 

Cassandra's gaze was still hard as she strode towards her. "You cannot stay back from this battle unfortunately. Solas says the rift is like a jammed door. We must open it first to close it properly or...something like that." She growled a bit as she spoke. This was not a woman who appreciated ambiguity. "When you open the rift, you get back immediately behind the soldiers - do not hesitate. When we clear the grounds of demons, you must return and close it for good." 

 

She reflexively nodded in agreement. But for the first time, the thought to _defy_ nipped from the back of her mind.

 

Her final steps towards the Rift seemed to slow time. The entirety of her existence could be flipped through in seconds. She didn't remember the Free Marches. The Circle was the same everyday. The Chantry was silent.  _I'm sorry Davell. You shouldn't have been here. I tried to tell myself that I hoped you wouldn't come._

 

_"I hate to see you like this," Davell said, standing further than arms reach from her, "what happened to everything you told me before? And now here you are, a puppet of Lord Trevelyan." He shook his head, turning to walk out of her life forever._

 

Had the Maker awakened her just long enough to feel alive one last time before the end? Did he bring back her useless life to save the rest of his creation? _Nearly thirty years...and what can I claim to my name? If this is to be the one meaningful act of my life, so be it. But I will not die before I fight._

 

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes as she raised her hand to the rift. Tendrils of green fire latched onto something she couldn't see - but the nerves through her arm shot searing waves of pain to her core, the muscles pulling and stretching as if being reeled in. Suddenly the connection snapped, and she was thrown back, crashing into the hard stone beneath her, coughing violently as the air left her lungs. 

 

A creature of jagged spires of rock, taller than two men with a dozen glaring eyes fell from the Rift, sending shockwaves through the earth that shook through to her bones. She could see it open its jaws in a roar of anguish, but heard nothing through a sharp note ringing inside of her head. Shadows fell across her face as men formed a protective circle around where she lay.

 

She scrambled to get up with some difficulty, the world slowly reorienting itself. As the ringing cleared her head, she heard muffled shouts and distant crackling. Cassandra charged the monstrous beast, shield raised. Her eyes looked...greedy. As the creature sent a jagged fist towards her, she dodged to the side, yelling with a manic joy - "Hit me you brute! Show me the worst the Fade has to offer!" 

 

Archers posted on the walls shot dozens of straight arrows at the demon's back - most bouncing off its rocky skin uselessly. Soldiers were occupied with lesser demons howling through the rift. The sounds of battle echoing against the crater was almost deafening. 

 

Solas and Varric were focused solely upon the the largest demon. Varric's crossbow proved far more effective at lodging arrows deep into its flesh, Solas seeming to use his spells with caution. _When you do not know the strength of your opponent, be conservative. You will only have so much focus in combat. Without significant draughts of lyrium you will tire quickly. First analyze your opponent, then strike._

 

The rift kept pouring out demons. The soldiers were beginning to get overwhelmed. They would soon be outnumbered. _I have to close it now._

 

She was terrified, somehow not of the demons and her imminent death, but of disobeying orders. Her body trembled as she took a step towards the ring of her guard. _They can't hurt you. They have to follow._

 

"Hey! Lady Cassandra told you to stay back!" One of the infantry cried in alarm as she stepped past them. 

 

 _Follow me or fail to execute your orders to protect me._ She wanted to retort, but her throat had stopped working.

 

Her hand began to crackle as she drew closer to the rift. Around her men were dying, but she barely noticed. She hardened the air around herself, and reached towards the Fade. 

 

The threads released from her hand, pulling her with them. The Rift was far larger than the others she had closed. It was tearing her apart as it began its slow stitching through the tear, pulling harder and harder. She braced her wrist with her other hand, pulling back and crying in pain and terror. Demons were drawn to her, screeching as they rushed her. Her barrier would hold them off for a time, but as more and more demons swarmed her, she felt it crumble, black claws reaching closer to rend her. _This is where I die._

 

An explosion destroyed the last of her barrier, nearly burning her skin but throwing the demons from her. Around her she felt the air completely still. Wind from the Fade no longer tugged her hair behind her.  Solas gave her a nod of approval. 

 

The Rift was nearly sealed, but she didn't know how much more she could take. Her legs were starting to go numb, her skin feeling like it would be ripped from her bones. A wave of purple lightning crashed across Solas' barrier, the hairs on her arms standing straight. 

 

_"I remember you," Davell said with some astonishment, pushing stray strands of red hair from his face. Battle flushed his face, his forehead shining with sweat. "You were at the Ostwick Circle." His sword was planted in the ground beside him, using it to help get to his feet. "What are you doing here?"_

 

The sky turned green behind him, a wave of blinding white light forming on the horizon, coming closer and closer until it crashed against her and consumed her whole. 


	12. The Warden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hero of Ferelden descends into a darkness she never wished to return to. With compelling voices beginning to unravel the fabric of her reality, will she even be able to become the hero she once was?

The thick, solid trunks punctured the sky like the lances of a thousand armies. They ascended infinitely into the dark mist of night, barren and branchless. 

 

She wandered between them with a muddled mind, her thoughts scrambled with the notes of a sickening melody. 

 

Through dense woods and vast fields she traveled with Duncan, torn with guilt over the lack of guilt she felt for those she left behind, and those she had betrayed. Around the bend of a fallen parapet stood the first man she had killed. Her heart jumped, beating erratically as he gazed upon her with vacant eyes. Dead, charred flesh flaked from his face onto the corpses of his comrades, blood spurting out of their bellies, throats, thighs. The burnt man croaked, flesh falling from his bones in slabs like melting snow. Duncan looked at her with such pride and approval, the softness of his eyes mixing with the horrid corpses before their feet, suffocating her like the smell of Enchanter Isilya's heavy perfume. 

 

She retched next to one of the stoic obsidian trees, her sinuses burning. The song coursed through the trunks, ruffling leaves that were not there. 

 

 _En uth...._ The fragments of words she couldn't make out echoed through the night like Leliana's voice beside the campfire. _No. It is nothing like that. Her voice was so perfect, so peaceful..._

 

As she continued to wander, the trunks slowly showed signs of distress: splintered slivers of bark, snapped trunks, burnt stumps with flickering embers, deep gashes of claw marks bleeding red sap.

 

"I like killing," Leliana sobbed in despair. 

 

"We only wanted to be free," Jowan screamed in anger.

 

"So, what, I should just abandon the only family I know?" Alistair glared with malice.

 

" **WEST.** " The beast roared with such intensity to break Mauren free from the Fade, gasping and covered in sweat. The dreams were getting worse. As were the voices.

 

_It's just because I'm so close. This is a good sign._

 

But still, it felt dangerous to be going further in. She hesitated each day to take that next step, doubt clouding her resolve. _I am **not** going there to die. _

 

King Aeducan had wished to give her a hero's welcome. It was awful to turn down after so many months of solitude, but discretion was crucial. She didn't know who her enemies were these days. The private quarters she was given almost made up for it. She spent a week reveling in the warmth of their hospitality: roaring fires, mead that warmed her bones, steaming baths, and an ocean of a bed covered in plush quilts. To make things even more impossibly wonderful, there was a letter waiting in her chambers upon arrival. 

 

_Mauren, My Love,_

 

_I hope my words find you alive and happy in Orzammar. I remember our first days together walking that path. I prayed to the Maker that he open the Fade just a bit on your journey there; that the happiness we felt in those days would press through to your side._

 

_Swoop sends his regards, and his love. He says to find a trader named Yoren who will have a "surprise" for you. I hope it's something useful and not a stuffed nug or something else ridiculous. You know how he is._

 

_Swoop also told me to tell you that he is fine. He did not tell me to tell you that he is not, and also feels the itch in back of his mind. However, he made sure that I understood it was important not to distract you on your mission and thus I should keep this a secret from you for now._

 

_The plans have all come into place for the Conclave. We are setting forth towards Haven tomorrow morning. I want to believe that this is the final step in the Maker's plan for me. That this is the beautiful rose in the vision that led me to you all those years ago. Finally the injustices inflicted upon you and the other mages will end, and they will be free to be heroes and villains and farmers just like the rest of us. He chose you to unite Ferelden for a reason, to be an example of the best mages can be. They will have my voice in this debate, have no doubt._

 

_Once this Conclave is concluded and peace is restored, I will return to your side Mauren. I will not have you face this darkness alone. I've spent ten years of my life rejecting what my heart tells me:_

 

_You are where I want to spend the rest of my days. I will follow you into the abyss and back. I will drive the evil cries from your mind with the sweetest songs and the softest words. When you dream of terrors you will know that I am there beside you, your anchor to what is real and beautiful in this world._

 

_We are in this together, to the end, no matter what comes._

 

_Forever, your Songbird._

 

* * *

 

 

The buzz of Orzammar and the acoustics of sound off the high, arching stone sky pleasantly drowned the music in her head. The new leather boots from Yoren clapped satisfyingly on the smooth granite walkways that slowly degraded into unkempt gravel. She could no longer find excuse to procrastinate and stay in the comfort and warmth of her chambers.

 

She was pleased that no one recognized her these days. Her hair was a far lighter brown from her long treks over the past months. She'd hacked off most of it after it turned into a matted, tangled mess her first week out of Vigil's Keep. The tattoos across her cheeks were unfortunately permanent, but graciously not too uncommonly seen since the Circles dissolved. She still couldn't quite believe that it had happened. If only Jowan had waited. _Not that it can matter to me either way._  

 

"Ho, Warden." A guard in well-scratched plate raised a hand in greeting while -- despite the staff giving away her magic --  those to his flanks saluted in respect. Lone Wardens only came here to die with honor. 

 

"Greetings," she nodded towards them. _Play along, but you are lying on purpose. You are not here to die._ "some Darkspawn have been insisting to me they need to die. I am here to oblige."

 

"Aye, no denying there's a few too many with heads down there. There's a Legion outpost not too far out if you wish to join our brothers and sisters in honor." His eyes looked upon her with such compassion it made her stomach twist. _You are not here to die._

 

"Thank you, I think I shall. Have there been any other Wardens descending in past months? I was hoping two could do more damage than one." She tried to keep her voice nonchalant, but acting was never her strong suit. She'd always left deception to Leliana. 

 

"None, as a matter of fact. It's good you've come or else those sodding darkspawn might start coming to our doorstep soon." He flashed her an encouraging smile. "We keep record of Wardens who come to the Deep Roads this way. I think our last one was...ah...five or six months ago? I mean, that's good for Wardens though, I suppose? Ah, I don't know shit about your order except you kill darkspawn, and that's good enough for me." 

 

"We're not too much more interesting past that." She nodded to him and he let her pass with a salute into the shadowy abyss. 

 

It wasn't right that no Wardens had come in so long. She'd been hearing the Calling for months now, as had Alistair as she'd suspected. Clarel's letters hinted at the same for her Wardens. And yet none had come by Orzammar? Something was terribly wrong. 

 

No scholar had ever done more than cursory research on the Calling. It was a disgrace and a disservice to an order that gave more than enough without that curse. She aimed to fix that. Although she had no idea how. 

 

On the road to Orzammar, she thought the whispers compelling her West meant here, in the Deep Roads. _But still they plague me with it. Is it nonsense? Is this the wrong place to look for answers?_

 

She'd not let her plan past arriving in Orzammar invade her thoughts since she conceived of it. Now, as the stone caverns descended further and further, her ears popping from pressure and eyes straining in the darkness, she truly considered that this was a fatal mistake.

 

To journey closer to the source than anyone before, sit alone in the abyss, and let the voices consume her. 

 

No Warden ever came to that brink and back again. Mauren intended to be the first. 

 

 


	13. The Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Breach is stilled, and the Inquisition leadership must deal with the aftermath. The people now clamor after the "Herald of Andraste" - a woman who certainly doesn't live up to the name. Well, not from what Cullen has seen so far anyway...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was always curious what happened between our Herald sealing the initial rift and when she wakes 3 days later. (Why is it always 3 days?) 
> 
> What kinds of deliberations and hard decisions must the Inquisition leadership have put up with? How did they react when there was finally a moment to breathe? Kind of felt like it had to be written!

_The Maker's trials never end._

Cullen left the War Room massaging his temples, a headache throbbing behind his eyes. Of course it would have been too easy if the woman they'd found had been the monster behind the destruction of the past three days. He clutched a small scroll listing the names of the dead -- the ones they could find, anyway. They were a fledgling organization to begin with, and now they were down several dozen soldiers. Civilian casualties would be impossible to determine until their families gave up hope and finally held funerals for their missing loved ones.

And what answers could he give those families? None. _I'm sorry for the loss of your husband and only child. Rest assured justice will be delivered as swiftly as we figure out how to track down a mysterious dark figure from the Fade._

Cassandra had difficulty describing the events that transpired. All she could know for certain was that the Trevelyan woman wasn't responsible. As the woman opened the Rift, memories bled from the Fade, showing the hazy form of a monstrous creature and the Divine crying out for help. _Unfortunate she was the one to show up._

Guilt panged him at the thought. He didn't know anything about the mage, but he had wished so desperately for something to blame. Everything was reminding him of Kirkwall, and a mage had been behind that tragedy too...

What would happen to the Inquisition from here was up for question. The Chancellor spared no time in letting them know the entire Chantry opposed their existence. Honestly, that was probably a good indication that the Inquisition should keep moving forward. He had just spent the last few hours arguing with Cassandra, Josephine, and Leliana on precisely how that should go about. The time was ripe for a new organization to succeed where the ones of old were failing, and they had so much potential.If they could agree on anything. Arguing with three strongly opinionated and willful women was not something he was accustomed to. Mostly he'd just dealt with one, which hadn't ended well.

And compounding all these problems was the horde of red lyrium left behind in the ruins...

It would be another sleepless night as Cullen settled into his small Commander's pavillion. A bed, a desk, a bookshelf. Luxurious by templar standards. 

He unfurled the scroll and looked down the list of names. So many good men and women, gone just like that. A sudden, blinding blaze of green and it was all over.

A sharp pain shot though his skull like a knife. He cried out, clutching the desk with white knuckles and with his teeth clenched harshly. _Patrolling the streets, greeting baker he sees every evening. Explosion off in the distance, tremors wracking the ground, the baker's stall collapses. Hunks of stone flying through the air. He yells to the baker to find cover. Boulder crushes the baker, blood spattering across the walls and Cullen's face..._

His heart raced, breathing harshly as if after a long spar. Tears tugged at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away quickly, trying to take long, deep breaths to slow his anxious heart. His nightmares had been getting worse for weeks, but since the Conclave explosion, flashes of memories from Kirkwall kept haunting him. Was it just a new side effect from the lyrium withdrawals? _This is my penance. I deserve this._

When he first agreed to go with Cassandra to Ferelden, he knew little of who he would be working with. But he never would have thought to see Leliana again. Their first meeting was brief, at the worst possible time in his life to be making new acquaintances. And he'd never forgotten the gentle hand she placed on Mauren's back, and the adoring look Mauren gave back. At the time, it barely stung in comparison to everything else that had passed. 

Seeing Leliana now only served to remind him of the man he once was -- and how ashamed Mauren must have been of his behavior.

He shook the thoughts from his mind, and set to making dozens of copies of the same letter:

_It is with a heavy heart I must report the passing of your wife. She fought bravely against demons that sought to destroy this world..._

 

* * *

 

He wasn't sure what time it was when Leliana slipped inside his tent. The sun had gone down what seemed like days ago, his lone lamp casting dark shadows under Leliana's eyes that exaggerated her own fatigue. He'd noticed the strain on her face. _She thinks it's her fault. I think it's mine. Cassandra thinks it's hers. Who is right?_

"Am I interrupting?" She asked coyly, her hands clasped behind her back. 

"Nothing that can't wait. What can I do for you Spymaster?" She gave him an exasperated look, sighing.

"So formal, always so formal. I think you need to loosen up." She brought her arm around from her back, revealing a rather large bottle of wine. "Cassandra and I have already gotten started. I know you're a lightweight, so we won't keep you long." 

He wasn't sure what to say. His relationship with everyone thus far had been at arms length besides his own Captains. _Why shouldn't I? The Divine is dead. This isn't the Chantry anymore._

He realized he'd been staring at Leliana while frozen with deliberation. She rolled her eyes and raised the flap of his tent to leave. 

"Wait," Would it be so bad for him to enjoy himself for once? "I apologize, I'm just...tired. I think that's a great idea." He flashed a weak smile and rose from his desk. He hadn't considered they'd have to walk together through the empty village to the Chantry. He swallowed, feeling more than a bit uncomfortable. He kept his gaze straight ahead, but could feel Leliana's glare like a flame next to his skin.

"Look, I wanted to wait until you were at least a bit drunk, but can you please just..."

"Stop." He said curtly. _I can't...I can't think about this...Maker please don't let her insist._ He chanced a glance down at her. She looked surprised, and if he was reading her right even a bit impressed.

"Yes sir." She replied with some amusement. Their silent walk through the village was still uncomfortable. But it was bearable, which was a marked improvement.

Cassandra was in the modest quarters usually reserved for Chantry Mothers. _Though in this case a Father, if Leliana's memory is true._ Cassandra was perched on one of the room's two cots, lazing against the headboard with a leg dangling off the side. She raised her half-empty glass of red wine as they entered, her cheeks already flushed.

"Ahh Commander. I am glad you decided to join us. Josephine declined, I cannot imagine why."

"She probably doesn't want to see our founder drunk and making a fool of herself." Leliana smirked, pouring two glasses from the bottle and handing one to Cullen. "Cheers, Commander." Sometimes, he was ashamed to admit, he could see what Mauren saw in her. He banished the thought as quickly as it came, taking a large gulp of wine, the bitterness pleasing. 

"How is our noble doing?" He asked stiffly, finding a box in a corner and leaning against the wonderfully cool stone wall.

"Still incapacitated. We have Adan looking after her for now. I do not trust our mysterious apostate friend." Cassandra growled.

"I do not think him so mysterious. A lone elven mage with no kin or clan to claim? I wouldn't be forthcoming with details either if I were him." Leliana sipped her glass thoughtfully, some of the more tense lines easing from her face. "I'd wager he was cast out by his clan long ago, one mage too many. Impressive that he has survived so long on his own."

"Have you heard what the people are calling Trevelyan? They say that she is the "Herald of Andraste," come to finally bring us back to the Maker's arms." Cassandra sounded skeptical. 

"Well, destroying a holy site and slaughtering hundreds is certainly one way to make an appearance." Cullen said bitterly, taking another long gulp of wine, burning his throat. _I'd forgotten why I don't drink. It feels too good._

"I'm waiting for our Herald to wake up so I can hear it from her herself. Maybe we were asking the wrong questions before." 

Cassandra shook her head a bit too emphatically. She was clearly far deeper in her cups than them. "I spent several hours with her yesterday. She does not know her own plans, let alone the Maker's. But still...she was eager to help. It seemed strange. Perhaps she is the Maker's answer to this tragedy."

 _And I still wish she was guilty._ He poured another glass.

"Chancellor Roderik is insistent on throwing her into a cage and losing the key," Leliana spat, "Our only chance at sealing the Breach, and all of these other rifts! Fool." 

The hour passed pleasantly through a few more glasses of wine. The subject kept returning again and again to the Trevelyan woman, Lieta. He had sparsely given her a glance but could distinctly recall her face -- eyes wide, trying to see everything at once. He knew that look: one of a mage fresh out of the Circle. One who had known nothing but stale air and stone walls. And despite this, she had been willing - eager - to sacrifice herself to stop something she apparently hadn't asked for. His shame at how harshly he had treated her at their meeting was overwhelming. 

"I wanted it to be her..." He said softly, brow furrowed against his guilt. The other two didn't reply, but he could feel their eyes on him. "I needed it to be her. Someone to blame for all of this senseless death. So many dead...I don't think I've even had time to spare them a thought."

Cassandra opened a drawer from the desk beside her cot, "I had been saving this for after the Conclave..." she said, her speech drawling, and revealed a flask with murky brown liquid, "Well, I suppose it is after the Conclave." She gestured a bit sloppily for them to gather around, "Come, let us have a toast for the dead." Despite her inebriated state, she filled each of their glasses with a small, precise level of...whatever was in that bottle. 

Leliana raised her glass, "To Mother Hannah." 

"For Ser Donnal" Cassandra said somberly.

"Knight-Commander Tavish. Maker take them to his side." A small clink of their glasses, one short note and one burning sip for every life that slipped away. 

Cullen lasted two more rounds before the heavy mixture of grief and alcohol made it difficult to keep his composure. There were so many more to mourn.

He excused himself and headed back to his pavillion with some difficulty. What would his men think, seeing their Commander staggering home drunk? 

But the second his head hit the pillow, a warm and soothing darkness enveloped him. His mind blissfully empty, he slept his first dreamless night since Kirkwall. 


	14. The Herald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every moment of Lieta Trevelyan's life had been under the shadow of someone else's. How is it possible, then, to awaken as a revered hero? How is a reviled mage possibly construed as Andraste's Herald? 
> 
> Everything happening must just be a huge mistake...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fear that these first chapters are a bit boring. There's an awful lot of build-up to parts in the story where I deviate from the game's story line. The goal here is to create and build the character and personality of each featured person. Hopefully that at the very least is mildly entertaining.

"Congratulations Tarwen, I'm so happy for you." Lieta said placidly, the words sticky and difficult to form like tar in her mouth. 

"Thank you! I was really starting to get worried there, you know?" The elf paused awkwardly, his eyes wide for a small instant, "I mean, not that...I'm sure that you'll be..."

She tugged the corners of her mouth into a weak smile, "It's all right Tarwen. I am sure you wish to enjoy the day. Congratulations again." Blessedly, he left her alone, likely feeling just as relieved. 

She sat on her bunk in the deserted dormitory. Tarwen had shared the one above her. Soon enough yet another young apprentice would take his place. _Why don't they just make me Tranquil and be done with it?_  

Tears fell silently from her cheeks to the carpet below in heavy drops. It was too much effort to try and hold them back. Plate greaves that had echoed through the hallways come to a halt in front of the dormitory's stone threshold. Glancing up, she saw a red-haired templar looking upon her with an expressionless face. Of course he would be able to see the red of her eyes and the wetness of her cheeks. She could hardly muster up the will to care, instead just turning from him to curl up on her bunk, staring blankly at a cracked stone wall whose every nook and cranny she knew by heart. 

 

* * *

 

"Leaving the Circle was the best thing that could have happened," Davell said, "for either of us." He cupped her cheek in his hand, the roughness of his callouses scratching against her skin. It was a clear, cool night in the Free Marches. Like one out of a story -- the constellations shining clear in the sky. They'd sat around their campfire all night, retelling the stories they knew from the Circle's libraries.

"Even for you?" She asked after a long pause. Even after all these months she still found it difficult to voice questions about these things.

"Oh Lieta..." He sighed, moving his hand from her cheek to chin, raising it up towards his face. So many years of physical training, he still struggled with gentle touches. "I joined the Templars to be a protector. Instead, I found myself a jailor. Here, with you, I can finally be the man I was meant to become." He pulled her lips to his, kissing her harshly before moving down to her neck -- which always seemed to leave her with bruises. 

He lowered her to the ground, one leg between hers and gripping her hair tightly between his clenched fist. He struggled with gentle touches, but the sensation of his lips pressed against her skin never failed to make her shiver with pleasure.

Sometimes he could be rough, she reasoned, but no one had ever treated her so passionately before. He cared. _And I love him_ , she thought, feeling the ridges of muscle in his arms and wrapping a leg around his hips to pull him ever closer. 

 

* * *

 

By the time she heard the dogs, it was too late. 

They had no horses. There was nowhere to run, no river to hide their scent. All there was time to do was turn to Davell with terrified eyes. 

"No! I won't let them take you. You are mine...I won't let them!" Lieta looked him imploringly, desperation the only thing that fueled her will to contradict him. 

"There's nothing you can do Davell. Please, if you fight they will...they will..." He grit his teeth and brought his hand to the hilt of his sword. Anger painted his face a red as bright as his hair, "This is a battle we cannot win," She said gently and laid her hand upon his, crestfallen. He hardened, muscles so tightly coiled they quivered. 

"Then perhaps I can win the war." He said, removing his hand from the hilt begrudgingly. 

A storm of hooves and howls burst from the treeline, surrounding them. Several dozen men on foot with common brown leathers, and upon each horse a set of red hair in gleaming armor. 

"You were more difficult to track than we anticipated, sister." One of the riders said, her templar shield glinting blindingly in the afternoon sun. "This man's doing, I expect?" She pointed a sword towards Davell. Lieta's heart pounded in her ears, the entire world throbbing like a drum. 

"N-no, you have the wrong idea." The woman had called her "sister" but Lieta didn't even recognize her. She barely knew her own father, but it was easy to assume who the greying man in fur-lined robes emblazoned with Chantry symbols was.

She and Davell had come up with a convincing story the moment they saw the decree with her likeness upon it. They'd discussed how this exact scenario would play out if it came to it. But the lines she had rehearsed dried up in her mouth as her father and siblings looked upon her with a revolting mixture of pity and disgust. 

"My Lord, I am Ser Davell, Templar of the Ostwick Circle. I collected Lady Trevelyan and was making my way East to return her to your care." Davell blessedly improvised.

"Ah. Well then, good Ser!" Her father called from atop a horse that must have been 18 hands tall, "We humbly apologize for the rude introduction. Although, you must forgive our mistake as you appear to have misplaced your Chantry-appointed armor." Lord Trevelyan's laugh made her skin crawl. Davell's face was still red, jaw clenched. "Well, you shall have half the bounty as you made it _almost_ half-way. The Maker deems it proper to be charitable, after all." He gestured towards the footmen -- mercenaries, by the common garb -- who shoved her roughly towards an empty horse. 

"Where..." She tried to speak, voice barely above a whisper. She felt a prisoner in her own body. It was as if the last few months had never even happened.  _I was never meant to be out here. This is who I am._ "A-are we...returning home?" The mercenary helped lift her onto her mount. She didn't even try to resist. Why bother? 

" _You_ ," her father emphasized, "will be going to the Chantry in Starkhaven. We have made arrangements for you. It would not do for us to leave you out here to die, or worse. We take care of our own." He took out a small bag, removing half of the coins then tossing it to Davell. "For you aid in keeping my daughter safe, Ser. Perhaps find some new Templar regalia with it. Maker knows the mess you have been through since the rebellions." They steered the reins of their horses towards the morning sun. Lieta turned back to Davell in panic. _I failed. I couldn't even play out my part and now we will never..._

"My Lord Trevelyan!" Davell said with perhaps a bit too much sternness. Her father raised an eyebrow. "You are correct. Things have been a mess since the rebellions. With the Circles gone, I have lost my way from the Chantry. I would find my way back again." He tossed the bag of coins back to her father. "More than any amount of gold, what I wish is to serve as I was trained. It is what the Maker called me to do. Let there be one more experienced Templar keeping your daughter safe from the demons of the Fade: grant me a position in Starkhaven, if it is within your power."

Lord Trevelyan shrugged, tucking the coin purse back into his gaudily-decorated robes. "Very well. Aerin, you'll take him back with you as well?" The woman who had called her 'sister' smiled, and nodded in respect towards Davell.

As they all turned towards the East, she dared glance back again at Davell, who gave her a quick wink. _I do not deserve this man, but I love him._

 

* * *

 

There was a clatter of wood against wood, a high-pitched gasp ringing between her ears. Lieta sat up sharply, though it quickly blacked out her vision as her head swam. She pressed it between her hands, the sensation somewhat nauseating. 

"Ah! You...you're awake!" As her vision slowly returned, Lieta saw the willowy form of a young elven servant. For some reason, she looked terrified. 

"Where am I?" Lieta groaned, swinging her legs off the side of her cot. 

"In Haven my Lady. L-Lady Cassandra said you're to see her at once." Still trying to shake the fog from her head, she tried to pry more information from the girl. She stuttered worse than Lieta, and was twice as frightened, backing slowly towards the door before making a run for it. As if Lieta was a danger to anyone. Not even demons had ever been particularly interested. 

Still seated on the cot, she tried to take an account for the last few days. A realization collided abruptly into her gut.

 _Davell is dead._  

That hadn't been a nightmare she'd woken from.

_Davell is dead._

The sudden gravity of that one truth crashed against her. She choked with tears she was too shocked to hold back. 

_Davell is dead._

Heavy sobs shook her entire body, uncontrollable and unending. She had to curl back onto the cot, pulling her knees to her chest. Holding herself, as he had for so long. She could hardly breathe through grief, mouth pulled wide in a silent scream, the salt from tears bitter on her tongue. 

And now who was there to save her? To shelter her? Her family would always be willing to hide her again but...is that what she really wanted? Is that what she had ever wanted? But the only defiance against them she had ever mustered was with Davell's urging and promise of protection. _And I will never see him again. I am alone._  

The thought brought a new wave of tears as she clutched the sheets and grit her teeth against her loss. She would never feel his hand or his lips upon her skin again. Their dream of endless mornings side by side were meaningless now. Her bed was empty.

Eventually, she ran out of tears. Her face hurt from the strain, eyes painfully red. 

A prickling sensation across her palm reminded her of another truth: she was irrevocably entwined in this catastrophe. Had she succeeded in sealing the Breach as they had set out to do? It seemed impossible any of that day had happened to her. Could she even be sure she hadn't dreamed the whole thing? The only sensible thing to do was as the elf girl said -- seek out Cassandra. She stumbled over a small crate of rare healing herbs on her way out, wincing as she crushed their delicate stems. _Royal elfroot and embrium for chronic salves...how long have I been here?_

Lieta was certain her eyes were still bloodshot, face likely still puffy. It would be unmistakable what she had spent the past half hour doing. But if she just kept her eyes down, and walked quickly surely no one would -- 

A hundred faces turned to her as she opened the door. Some wore expressions of curiosity, others of adoration, of reverence. Dozens knelt in the snow, uncaring of the cold seeping through fabric, their hands clasped as if in prayer. _  
_

What was she supposed to do? They looked at her, but none moved to speak with her, or to block her path. She didn't know much about the outside world, but surely this wasn't...normal?

A flash of green lightning spread across the sky like blood through crisscrossed veins. Here and now, without chunks of rock and demon-spawn hurtling from its unknown depths, it looked almost beautiful. Lieta had difficulty imagining she could ever have affected such a wonder. Surely _that_ part at least she wasn't remembering correctly.

All there was to do was what she set out for. She stepped awkwardly through the village's twisting paths, impossible numbers of people lining the streets, shuffling among the forest of faces on their toes just to catch a glimpse of her. Children perched upon shoulders squealed and waved. She wasn't certain if she was to wave back. It seemed safest to keep her eyes down, one foot in front of the other.

"That's her! The Herald of Andraste!"

"...sealed the Breach. Saved us all."

"As she stepped out of the Fade, Andraste herself delivered her. I heard she spoke a whole new Canticle before she left..."

Whispers trailed her through the village all the way towards the doors of the Chantry. Why did they even bother whispering when she could plainly hear them? _If only mother and father could hear these words. Chantry Sisters associating me with Andraste? They would be tripping over themselves._

As she shut the doors behind the crowds, she took a moment to recover, breathing in warmth and silence. Here, things made sense. The same reliefs of Andraste carved in the walls. The same polished mourning statues of Maferath to remind us the cost of pride. It worked to quickly smother the small flame of it the adoring crowds had stoked within her. The villagers had likely just been spreading rumors of a story to assuage their fears and give answers to endless questions. That display had likely been a deliberate test from the Maker, to ensure she had not forgotten her place.

Her footsteps echoed peacefully from the high arched ceilings. As a young girl in the Circle, Lieta ran to the Chantry to pray after every lesson. To beg for relief from her curse. How some of the other apprentices seemed _happy_ with their powers she did not understand. If she tried to suppress it, refused to learn it, would they let her go? Would mother smile at her again? After five years of constant prayer, she realized those were childish fantasies. 

"I do not believe she did it!" Cassandra's muffled shout seeped through a shadowed back door. 

"That is not for you to decide!" The Chancellor's unforgettable harpy shriek followed. 

She'd learned early on there were punishments for interrupting your superiors. But as their argument turned towards deciding whether it was prudent to string her up in Val Royeaux now or later, Lieta managed to nervously half-open the door. Their yelling came to an abrupt stop.

Cassandra gestured for her to come in, appearing actually pleased by her interruption. Two fully armed Templars flanked the threshold, and Leliana was quietly leaning in a corner. The dark circles were gone from beneath her eyes, some color restored against her pale skin. Between them was an enormous decorated table, covered in several dozen fading maps of Fereldan and Orlais.

 "Chain her! She is to be sent immediately to Val Royeaux for trial." Did the Chancellor have any other tone of voice but that shriek? Men of the Chantry were so insecure with their power that they always tried to compensate for it with rudeness. 

"Ignore that," Cassandra groaned to the two Templars, "and leave us." They obeyed immediately -- of course Lieta had heard the tales of Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. Until this moment it hadn't felt real that they had met and that she had seen her prowess in person. Every apprentice in the Circle knew the rumors of how mages had been the true heroes behind her saving the Divine from a dragon. If her memory could be trusted, that dwarf may have been _the_ Varric Tethras as well...

"You overstep your bounds, Seeker. The Chantry _will_ hear of your abuses of power." Roderick sneered. 

" _What_ Chantry, Chancellor? Everyone of importance is dead. It's the only reason you dare walk around here speaking well above your station to your superiors." Cassandra spat back. 

"Superiors? Is that what you call yourselves? The Divine is _dead_ if you hadn't noticed, thus have you failed your positions and forfeited them. I am simply trying to do your jobs for you and find some justice for Her Holiness by arresting this terrorist."

"You _dare?"_ Leliana's face was painted with fury, stepping towards the man with her hand reaching towards her belt. Cassandra halted her with an arm. They stared intently at eachother until Leliana relented, nodding and handing Cassandra a book from the table.

Lieta stood awkwardly near the door, uncertain if they even remembered she was present, or if she should leave. Wracked with indecision, she stood frozen in place instead.

"Do you know what this is Chancellor?" Cassandra asked, holding out a thick tome with the same symbol she bore upon her chest plate, and Leliana around her cloak. "This is a decree from Divine Justinia herself. Her fail-safe for this Conclave, if you will. I believe that this qualifies, do you not? Or are you saying that you will defy her last command?" She slammed the tome down in front of him, shaking dust from the table. 

"The rest of the Chantry will not permit it. Everything has changed, and the Prisoner -" 

"I hearby re-establish the Inquisition as commanded by Her Holiness Divine Justinia the Fifth." In what appeared to be an effective method of intimidation, Cassandra lorded over the small man, "We will seal the Breach, find those responsible, and restore order, with or without your help. Run and tell your supporters that, if you wish." His only response was to snarl and storm out of the room, slamming the door behind him. 

Cassandra immediately deflated, doubt shading her features as she leaned over the table, shaking her head. That was perplexing: the legendary Seeker Pentaghast appeared to be questioning decisions she had moments ago made with such conviction. She'd never been present in the aftermath of leadership. Everyone else always seemed so certain of themselves...it couldn't all be an act, could it?

"Did you mean all of that?" Lieta asked tentatively. 

"Yes. Every word." Then why did she look so insecure about it? 

"It won't be easy," Leliana interjected, "We have no leader. Few resources. And now, no Chantry support."

"But we do have you," Cassandra said, looking towards Lieta. She furrowed her brow in confusion.

"Me? You don't even know if I am a ruthless terrorist or a helpless noblewoman yet," she said in disbelief. 

"The memories at the Breach were proof enough for us. And Leliana agrees with me, which is as much a sign this is the correct path as any."

"Memories? What do you mean?" 

"Do you not recall?" Leliana asked quizzically, "After you opened the Rift, there were shadows..." Lieta just shook her head. Nothing about that day seemed clear. 

"Well, then we have much to discuss. That is, if you are committing to join us in this."

Was that a real question? The thought that she would even have a voice in the matter hadn't crossed her mind. Refusal was an actual _option?_  

Deliberating between the choice of Starkhaven's lonely, never-changing Chantry and the Inquisition did not take long.  _I am only here by luck and chance. But I will force myself to become something more._  She would not squander this chance.

"This is my fight too. Of course I am staying."


	15. The Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not many have gone through lyrium withdrawal and lived to tell of their pain. Cullen must fight against the harrowing pull of lyrium, while balancing the endless needs of a struggling organization in a world of chaos. 
> 
> Added to his list of problems, Cassandra has forced the Herald of Andraste on him to help bring her up to speed on the basics of combat -- yet another woman he can't seem to say the right thing around.

It had been easier to believe in the Maker when his life had been on a path from which he could never stray. 

In the past, he followed wherever the scent of lyrium lead him. From Circle to Circle, action to action, down the path of madness more times than he cared to recall. If he allowed himself to believe he'd done those horrible things because it was just his nature, it would be pointless to go on. The man lyrium made of him had been a weakling, a coward, and now he could no longer use it as an excuse. 

Cullen eased himself from his desk, needing to feel the cold wind of the Frostbacks on his skin. 

Here was a choice, he thought as he walked towards the village's frozen docks, possibly the first real choice he'd made in over ten years. Here was where he would show himself that he was more than what the lyrium whispered to him -- glimpses of nothingness, of falling into an endless vacuum never to speak or hear another voice again. Those dreams more than any found him awake in terror, filled with the darkest dread.

Josephine often insisted he take quarters in the Chantry -- _the people must see that the Inquisition has the resources to at least modestly accommodate its leadership, Commander Rutherford_ \-- but the last place he wished to awaken from silent nightmares was encased in dark, stone walls.

The cold air whipped through the thin fabric of his tunic, setting every last one of his nerves aflame. Behind him echoed the clash of swords as his initiates trained for the battle to come. It was enough to remind him he was alive, and far from the isolation the lyrium void inside him suggested.

In Kirkwall, not a day went by he wasn't accused of being a jailer. Often by the city's own Champion, the only openly practicing apostate he'd ever known. The thought of the woman brought a grimace to his face. He still struggled to understand how  _she_ , living freely, dared accuse him and his fellows of being jailers. Was she blind to Samson begging in the streets, an open testament to what happened to those templars who thought they could leave? What of the very real infestation of abominations that would have overrun the city if not for their blood? 

It often felt the world had forgotten the plight of their own protectors.

But things were different now. The Inquisition was a place he could finally make a difference, providing his former brothers and sisters a place to serve under a Commander who truly cared for their welfare.

The ravens had been sent, the couriers given their fastest steeds. In the few span since their forces had halted the Breach, there was a steady stream of recruits, carrying their entire life in small packs, untrained and half-starved. _Most to see the Herald of Andraste for themselves_ , he thought bitterly, turning back towards the pavilion to return to the piles of correspondence at his desk. His belief in the Maker was as fervent as anyone's, but that so many felt the Maker would show his presence by first slaughtering countless of his most faithful was deeply frustrating.  _Do they think Kirkwall's terrorist mage was the Maker's servant as well?_  

However, he had to admit, he was surprised by the shear numbers and enthusiasm of the new recruits, ragged as they were. It may be they came here in naiivety, but by Andraste he would forge them into a force to be reckoned with. 

And it was a force they would need, if the reconnaissance from Leliana's scouts was even halfway accurate. They were the latest in a stack of paper that was growing more quickly than he could get through it:

_Many had expected the fighting to quiet as time went on, but all reports from locals claim the opposite._

_Particularly in Redcliffe and surrounding villages, renegade templars and apostates have organized, only increasing the level of destruction in the area. Some act as large militias; invading towns and forcing villagers out of their homes, others as bandits ransacking all attempts at delivering supplies. Fields have been ravaged, and most refugees are beginning to starve. Compounding this, if relief is not provided within the next three months the next sowing season will be missed entirely._

_We have identified six areas prone to the greatest number of skirmishes between groups. We have recruited locals to aid us in identifying strategic locations to target first. A surface dwarf has been helping our scouts slip by encampments with surprising efficiency. Recommend both following her advice to secure the Crossroads first and recruiting her for future scouting missions._  

 _On the positive side, that means obtaining cavalry and supplies could be struck off of the to-do list for the moment_ , he thought with bitter amusement. Josephine had been working miracles to get their own Inquisition enough food, but at this rate there would be no harvest for the next year. As a small blessing they had enough lumber and ore around for their basic needs, but Haven was no place for keeping the cattle they'd need for...

"Commander, a moment." Cassandra invited herself inside his pavilion, her skin covered in a fine layer of sweat and dirt she didn't seem to care about. "Leliana and I have been discussing The Herald. Lieta...Lady Trevelyan. Ugh, I never know what I'm supposed to call her." She unclasped one glove from her hand, combing it through her wet strands of hair and shaking droplets to the dirt below.

"Use The Herald around Josephine. I got quite the lecture about 'showing respect' to our figurehead when I let 'Trevelyan' slip." 

Cassandra smirked, slipping her glove back on, "I will keep that in mind. It is probably good advice. The Herald, then." She clasped her hands behind her back and began pacing. The woman never seemed content to sit still except for meals, and even those he'd seen her inhale as if she'd never eat again. "As I said, Leliana and I were speaking of her...inexperience in combat. It is a problem that needs solving."

"Well, she's in good company at the least. Most of the recruits who have come to worship her barely know which end of a sword to grip." It would have been nice if his joke hadn't been so close to the truth. Runaway farmers always held a hilt like they were getting ready to till their opponent rather than kill him. 

"And that would be fine, if we had the time to wait for her to be ready. But Commander, we need her to get out there and start closing Rifts _now_. We get messages everyday from terrified nobility and commoners alike about the demons in their backyard. We must answer them if we want the people's support...which Josephine has informed me we do." 

"What exactly is it you're proposing?" 

Cassandra sighed, pausing her anxious pacing. "We think it would be best if you personally helped her. The basics of combat, to familiarize her with basic strategy and formation. I had tried myself but..." She trailed off, forearm tensing around her sword hilt, attached to her hip as always, "We know that you have many duties as it is, but this is priority Commander." 

Cullen didn't bother to stifle his groan, a pressure growing behind his eyes. "Seeker between securing supply lines, trying to recruit experienced Captains and training my own initiates I fail to see where you think I can..."

"I will aid you with training the new recruits. Find the time, Commander. She must be prepared, and we all well know you are a far more patient teacher than I."

"What am I even supposed to teach a mage? Wouldn't our elven adviser be a far better teacher on such matters?" It's not that he didn't enjoy mentoring, but a _mage?_

"She lacks even the most basic understanding of combat, and as a matter of survival she needs to learn from the best. Solas is helping her with her magical capabilities, but you are far better suited to teach her how a soldier will try to defeat her. That is what _we_ were trained to do, after all." She smirked, walking over to his desk and placing another scrap of parchment on his unread pile, "Plus, if our intelligence is correct she will need to know how to counter templar training. This is your schedule with her. Good luck." She turned on her heel and marched out of his pavilion before he could even speak another word of protest. 

Cullen rubbed his throbbing temples, trying to alleviate the pressure of yet another item on his list of duties. It was a good excuse to end his self-inflicted awkwardness with Lady Trevelyan, he supposed. He'd barely seen her save at meal times, and even those he typically took at his desk. Maker, he had completely rejected her at first glance, how does anyone recover from that? That was the reaction of a man he was straining to forget, and seeing her lately had only filled him with doubts. 

_The Conclave was not the will of the Maker, but the Inquisition could be, and she is its Herald. It is only through being tested that we may prove to ourselves who we are. I will teach her, mage or no._

 

* * *

 

Lady Trevelyan arrived punctually. dressed as he always saw her -- tunic buttoned up to her neck, her coat's high collar up to her chin. Today, however he was inspecting her with the eyes of a soldier. It was well-hidden by the layers of cloth, but the woman was a waif. Had she ever had to lift a finger in her life? Fortunate for her, she had magical talent. Even if she had the muscle to wield a sword or axe, she was too short to have any kind of reach, and too tall to utilize the tactics of dwarven warriors. She may have been able to use a bow, but looking at her he could only envision her quaking like a leaf trying to draw its string. 

"Commander Cullen," she bowed as if he were her superior. It left a foul taste in his mouth. 

"Lady Trevelyan I am no longer a Templar and you are no longer in the Circle. You are the Inquisition's Herald, and it is not...proper...for you to bow to me." A ghost of a smile flashed across her face, and she nodded, taking a seat across from his desk. Although he'd had only one day to prepare, he had to admit that creating a lesson plan for a novice had been rather enjoyable. He hadn't realized how much he actually enjoyed teaching until he was in control of the message. 

"Now, I was uncertain...how much did Seeker Cassandra tell you of your purpose in these lessons?"  Lady Trevelyan paused thoughtfully, running a hand through her long red hair and revealing a thin, white scar flowing from her scalp behind her ear to her jaw, its image lost on the paleness of her skin. 

"It's no secret that I am not skilled in combat, Commander. Seeker Cassandra had tried to help, but I believe she was unprepared for...the true extent of my ignorance. It was then she suggested you might be a better fit." She laughed, pushing her fingers through her hair again, "I ahh...I must admit I was not ungrateful. The Seeker was not a patient teacher." That was certainly unsurprising.

"Forgive me, Herald, but out of curiosity...how did you survive the Circle's collapse? Which are you from?" He immediately regretted the question as her expression glazed over. He knew well that far-away stare. "Apologies, Herald, you need not answer that, let us move on to..."

"No, no, it's all right." She paused, returning her focus to him and flashing a weak smile, "I am from the Ostwick Circle in the Free Marches. The collapse was...not peaceful. I was found by a Templar who sheltered me until I was..." she furrowed her brow, clenching her jaw. Her thin, bony features only pronounced the flexing of its muscles. He found himself staring. "...reunited with my family." She finally finished. 

"Well, I'm glad at least one Templar didn't seem to completely lose himself after the dissolution." He said with some strain, trying to close his embarrassing prying questions on a positive note.

"Yes, he was a good man." _Was. Maker's breath, is everything that comes out of my mouth this awful?_

A rather large lump seemed to settle itself in his throat, and his awkward coughing seemed to do nothing to dislodge it. "Well I...umm...I suppose we should move on to your lesson for the day."

He had treated the lesson as if teaching a child the difference between a rapier and a bastard sword. It appeared he had not started too low as he brought out tomes on smithing and weaponry, showing her the function of a hilt, of a handguard, the capabilities of various bows. She was a surprisingly attentive student, never once attempting to cover up her ignorance, asking several appropriate, if simple, questions along the way. It was a refreshing experience to teach someone so eager to learn.

He had completely lost track of time until a page boy came by to inform him of his tardiness at the small council meeting. 

"Well, I think that's more than enough material for one day, in any case." He said with a sigh, stretching his back after being hunched over books for a few hours. 

"I see I have much to learn. This was fascinating, Commander Cullen. Thank you for your time." She began to bow again, catching herself half way and stumbling back to offer a hurried handshake instead. "Sorry," she began as he grasped her hand in return, "that is a habit that will take some time to forget, I'm afraid."

She had opened the flap and was stepping across the threshold when he found himself calling out, "You did very well I...forgive me, I just thought you should know that you may be one of the best students I've had." She answered only with a puzzled look, furrowing her brow and leaving silently. 

 _What was that about?_  It had been going so well, too. He tried to drive the rather awkward encounter from his mind as he ascended the steps to the Chantry, instead turning his thoughts to the Hinterlands, and how he could possibly lead a force of a few dozen untrained soldiers to save it. 

Echoes of lyrium began to resonate through his head as the sky turned dark, forming swirling visions of vast plains of emptiness and unbearable silence. He stopped, clenching his eyes shut, trying to focus on the sound of the cold wind rustling Haven's vast pines. _Lyrium is not the only sound in this world. I will not be tricked._

Until he had consumed his last drop of lyrium, he thought he knew true horror at the Ferelden Circle. The realization that existence could not possibly offer him anything worse had helped heal his scars more than anything else. 

He had been mistaken. The gaping emptiness he felt inside made the siren call of lyrium impossible to resist. When all around him was an endless abyss, it promised a tether to the only way out. He need only reach out to grasp it.

He opened his eyes, the world returning to focus. The clink of the blacksmith's hammer, idle chatter of Chantry sisters, footsteps crunching through snow. 

Cullen would persevere. There had never been another time in his life where there was so much to live for. It had been easier to believe in the Maker when you confused your leash with destiny. But now his choices were his own. And he chose to believe. 


	16. The Dreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What do you see, when you look at it?" He asked as her footsteps stopped at his side. Lieta gave him a quizzical look then followed his gaze towards the Breach. He wondered briefly if she even realized she winced everytime she looked upon it. 
> 
>  
> 
> "I...suppose I see something that should not be. The Maker separated the realms for a reason. We must do what is necessary to mend his work." A sad answer. Predictable, but sad. 
> 
>  
> 
> "Is that all?" He turned to look at her, trying to see even a hint of a spark her eyes and failing.

Solas was nothing if not a patient being. 

 

_Patient._

 

That was one word he'd learned in uthenera. The concept behind it hadn't existed previously, after all. 

 

It had been a project that kept him occupied while centuries of history unfolded beneath him. He admired -- no, admired wasn't the right word -- the way the people so quickly and naturally embraced the concept. They truly knew no better, the poor fools. They reminded him of those small, scurrying drones with blank faces in the dark corners of the earth. 

 

 _Patience, quickly, with haste, hurry, too late, today, tomorrow, next year._ All words he had initially struggled to build a framework for. And now that he was finally grasping it fully, he planned to destroy it. The only objections would come from those who just didn't know how much grander existence could be. Like trying to explain color to the blind. 

 

He stood outside, facing the Breach, pondering such oddities. Villagers who passed regarded him with confused, sometimes scathing expressions. Whether it was the shape of his ears or the bareness of his feet in the snow, he wasn't sure. Either way, he pitied them.

 

What he couldn't stand were the elven servants who looked to him as some kind of God. The moment he made eye contact, they'd scurry off as if they'd been caught stealing.  _How does it go? The more things change, the more they stay the same?_

 

But he'd been bearing it for weeks since the Breach was stilled. He could stand a few more before they set out again. Of course, as their foremost expert on the Fade -- meaning, the only one who really knew anything about it at all -- he'd be brought along. That wasn't a concern. 

 

What did concern him was the girl. 

 

How the power of Mythal's orb hadn't torn her apart by now he wasn't certain. Six days of frequently interrupted study hadn't allowed him much time for answers. What he had learned was of a weak, pathetic soul, even for a human. It was almost _painful_ to speak to these new comrades, thus he avoided it as much as would be tolerated. Part of him wept for how severed they were from the full experience of life and power. In their fear of reality they'd constructed convoluted institutions to keep it at bay. He supposed he only had himself to blame. 

 

The true crisis was whether or not Mythal's orb had survived. If not, then all there would be to rely on was the girl...and thus far that did not seem possible. Her soul was too weak. She was willingly, if subconsciously, pushing her natural connection to the Fade away. Heartbreaking and infuriating at once, a starving dog biting the hand that feeds it in fear of being hit. 

 

And now he was supposed to teach her how to master that connection. Just his luck to be the only other skilled mage in the entire village. As he heard the cautious crunch of her footsteps approaching behind him, he pondered how to turn this to his advantage. _She has a power I may need. You can find some use of that, if you try._  

 

"What do you see, when you look at it?" He asked as her footsteps stopped at his side. Lieta gave him a quizzical look then followed his gaze towards the Breach. He wondered briefly if she even realized she winced everytime she looked upon it. 

 

"I...suppose I see something that should not be. The Maker separated the realms for a reason. We must do what is necessary to mend his work." A sad answer. Predictable, but sad. 

 

"Is that all?" He turned to look at her, trying to see even a hint of a spark her eyes and failing. "Try again, Herald. This time, look at it with your own naked eyes, not through the lens of what you've been told." The girl sighed and looked back up to the sky silently. He didn't break the silence, even as the wind stirred and minutes passed. He was nothing if not a patient being.

 

"In honesty, Solas, I don't know what I see. The green that bleeds, is that the Fade? Does it exist behind the sky, or is it right here, in front of us? Is it possible that's where we go when we dream? Could my spirit fall out of the Fade through that Breach? Are people the world over dying in their sleep? I don't know what it is Solas. I really don't." He couldn't help the smile that crossed his face. _Finally, some life from the human. She has not completely forgotten her hunger._

 

"A wise answer." 

 

"What? That wasn't an answer at all. In fact, that was four or five _more_ questions." 

 

"Precisely!" He turned to her, conjuring a small flicker of flame in his palm. "I have some of those answers. I could share them with you, but how would that be any different than whatever Chantry Mother told you the Maker separated the realms? Whatever the answers are, you must find them for yourself before you can possess the confidence necessary to control it." 

 

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean. Are you saying it doesn't matter what you believe, so long as you believe it strongly enough?" She was not convinced. As she shouldn't be, he wasn't exactly being entirely truthful, after all. But that wasn't important for her right now. 

 

"Belief is very powerful, Herald. A great many things that _are_ could not be if others did not believe it so." He casually danced the small flame over his knuckles, changing it into a sphere of ice. "Tell me, do you control your dreams?" 

 

"I...well no, one cannot help what they dream." 

 

"Perhaps I should rephrase. You cannot control where your dream has placed you, but can you control what you do once you are there?" Lieta furrowed her brow, her gaze turned inwards. 

 

"Not that I can ever recall. I feel that I hardly dream as it is" How very sad. 

 

"Then this is your first task. Embrace the Fade when you are in it. Do not sit back and allow it to form however it pleases around you! Believe that you are in control in the Fade, and it shall be so." 

 

"I...I'll try, Solas." 

 

"That is all I can ask." He turned back to the sky, back to the festering green scar of his own making. "We shall resume in a week where you will update me of your progress." 

 

It was very strange, teaching a novice girl the most rudimentary concepts of the Fade while looking upon one of the greatest magical events in this world's recent history. She did not deserve him as her teacher. _Imagine if_   _she knew the extent of her tutor's knowledge_. She likely wouldn't even begin to be able to understand. None of them would. This world's last catastrophe had been partly his doing as well. _And the one before,_ he thought with some hesitation. 

 

He shook the doubts from his mind. The last one hadn't been his fault. He could not have known the lengths Mythal would go for revenge. He hadn't even felt her spirit's stirrings. He could not blame her for such reckless actions. Vengeance was her nature, and it was certainly merited. 

 

 _Teach the girl just enough to make her amenable to what needs to be done._ Whether she knew it or not, she would become a God in her people's eyes. He'd seen it enough to know its inevitability.

 

_Poor fools._

 

 


	17. The Vagabond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arenth Hawke finds the strength to finally pry herself from Anders' side. She has never forgotten what he did, and never forgiven. 
> 
> Finally with time apart, perhaps she can escape her past and forge a new way forward, though a familiar face in Lothering tethers her back to reality...
> 
> [1 or 2 lines very mildly nsfw-ish]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know in DA:II there is a letter you get that says Lothering is beyond saving. BUT that seemed like an inconsequential piece of lore, and its presence serves a purpose here, so I conveniently ignored that little tidbit!

Green fields as far as the eye could see. This was not how Arenth had left things all those years ago. 

 

She'd fled Lothering, and by all accounts it had done the small village only good. There was almost no hint of the raging fires, of those decaying hills, of the trees that crumpled to ash at a single touch. 

 

Tears welled in her eyes. She did not wish to look inside herself and ask why. 

 

As she and Anders gazed from a ridge on the western edge of Lothering's valley, birds erupted from their canopy of pines, their chorus of sharp whistles and high-pitched calls beckoning her forward. Small patches of light shimmered between clouds, bathing the town and hills with a soft, golden mist. The wind rustled gently through the pines and the blades of grass. In the distance, the soft clink of a smith's hammer echoed faintly across the valley.

 

This was not how Arenth had left things. She left them in ruined chaos, with the stench of death heavy in the air. 

 

Anders laid a hand on her shoulder, but his gesture of comfort left a bitter taste in her mouth. 

 

 _Don't worry about that now. Soon there will be time to think alone. You'll come up with the right answer._ Though a large part of her didn't want to know.

 

"This is where you're from?" Anders said with some curiosity. He must have been quite happy to finally see it with his own eyes. Just thinking of seeing the desolate land in the Anderfels he came from left her with the same strange sense of happiness and possessiveness he must have felt now.

 

"We lived in many places but...here was the longest. It looked...very different back then." Even before the Blight, Lothering bore scars left by the marching feet of countless soldiers over the centuries. But it seemed the Blight had torn away those scars, and over the ruin in its wake something better had grown. 

 

"Do you think anyone will remember you?"

 

"Perhaps, though I'd prefer not to run into any familiar faces if I had a choice." She threw her pack from over her shoulder and knelt on the thin, rocky trail they'd been traveling. From it she pulled a long, black-dyed cloak, draping it across her shoulders and letting the oversized hood fall over her eyes. Beneath its shadows, her lips pulled up into a silent laugh. 

 

"Ah yes, the quintessential assassin's hood. _Very_ inconspicuous, love." He smirked at her, and it pulled at her heartstrings as it always did. The way the corners of his eyes wrinkled, the small curl of his lips, and the way he gazed at her...

 

A lurch in her throat, and the invisible leash of her love pulled her towards him. She tied her arms around his waist, clutching the fabric of his robe tightly between her fists. Sorrow crashed against her in a way that had only happened once before.

 

_...Anders, what have you done, she asked pointlessly_

 

"I told you to never leave, Anders. I never thought then it would be me who would leave you. I told you to never leave, and now I'm walking away..." Her chest was full to bursting of a twisted maelstrom of feelings she couldn't even give name to, her teeth clenched against their pain.

 

"Arenth, my love." The warmth of his arms around her. The tingle of her scalp as he wound his hand through her hair. The low, husky vibration of his voice, hitched with the same pain that wracked her heart. How could she have ever thought to leave him? How could she hope to find any happiness without him by her side? Without his endless smirks, his deep laughter at everything? The touch of his hands, the things he whispered in her ear as he thrust inside her? Oh Maker, how would she live without that?

 

"You'll come back to me, Arenth. You always do. Please just..." His voice cracked, and she looked up to see tears freely flowing down his face, lost in the stubble of his beard. "Just promise me that you'll come back. That nothing will happen to you...that you won't..."

 

She couldn't make any such promise. They both knew. 

 

This might be the end. 

 

She answered the only way she could, and pressed her lips harshly against his, snaking her hands to hair, pulling him against her. He opened his mouth to her in feverish response, allowing her to pull them back against the ridge's stone walls. This was just as desperate as the first time: when he finally claimed her as his, finally accepted his yearning and pressed his mouth to hers as she'd dreamed of for years. It was all laid bare now in his eyes gazing down on hers. 

 

 _Just one last time...one last time before I go._ It was her last thought before his breath against her neck drove all reason from her mind. And for the first time since the Chantry crumbled, she allowed herself to be fully lost in his touch.

 

No fears about if it was right to love the feel of his palm between her thighs.

 

Worries of if he could ever be redeemed vanished under the heat of his body pressed against hers. 

 

There were no dueling emotions inside of her when he was there. 

 

Love. Pleasure. Happiness. _Just one last time._

 

* * *

 

The muscles of her neck cramped and strained as she forced her head to remain rigidly forward. _No looking back._  As she traversed the valley floor, his lingering gaze seared the flesh of her back. But she'd made her choice. Ever forward. 

 

Blessedly, it took over an hour to reach the village gates from the ridge. Enough time to wipe the tears from her eyes and to cover the bruises on her neck and collarbones. _To remember me by, at least for a while._ She shivered in pleasure at that newly-formed memory. Anders was deviously, wonderfully cruel when he wanted to be. 

 

It was enough to pull a new wave of tears to her eyes, so she banished the thought and focused her attention outwards. Lothering was near unrecognizable to her now. Most of the city has been obliterated by the Darkspawn. The only familiar sight was the Chantry, though even from a distance she could see black stains lashed across the crumbling stone of its walls. Fire had ravaged much of the countryside, and only the village's stone foundations remained intact. 

 

She remembered some of what it was like to live here. Travelers weren't too uncommon at their crossroads, but still -- each had stood out like a sore thumb. From afar she would admire their scratched and dented armor, imagining the swords and claws that marked them. When she'd found opportunity, she'd pelt them with endless questions about the surely epic battles they'd been in. 

 

Back then, her father would take her and Bethany away from the village once a week, a half-day's walk to the woods. There, alongside several terrified fennecs, he taught them the ways to control their abilities. To conceal them. What was meant to help Arenth and her sister master themselves instead ignited an unquenchable fire within her. It wasn't long before she was sneaking off at every opportunity to practice in secret, trying anything without thought of the consequences to get that surge of adrenaline that filled her with unrivaled ecstasy. 

 

More than anything she had wanted to be one of those vagabond warriors. That desire was a constant source of strife between her and the rest of the Hawkes. _It's not fair, she screamed at her father, red-faced and teary eyed. You're right, it's not, he replied with unwavering resolve._

 

Thus, she'd learned the sword and the bow...and the fist. Memories of childhood scuffles flooded her as she passed the ground they'd meet to fight. She hadn't realized then how much danger she was always putting her family in. All it would have taken was one slip, one bad hit from a rival and she could have lost control. How much different her life would have been.

 

But now she _was_ one of those vagabond warriors. Children in their fields stopped and watched as she strode by -- just as she would have decades ago. Arenth suddenly felt very tired, and very old. 

 

 _Not even my neighbors in Kirkwall would recognize me now_ , she thought, pulling her cloak further around her shoulders, _it will be safe to stay here just one night. Most everyone I knew is probably dead, honestly._

 

She crossed the river that coiled lazily through the village center. If the Darkspawn hadn't destroyed the place then her house would have been...

 

 _Right here._ She stopped in her tracks, staring at the simple, thin two-story cabin. Before, it had been narrow to fit snugly between the smithy and Mirien's home. Now it stood like a tree in a barren field, ample ground between it and its closest neighbor. The wood was new, the structure far less dilapidated than she'd left it. Someone had rebuilt their old home precisely as it had been. _Who? Why?_  

 

She longed to go inside. Some foolish notion of her family being alive and well if only she'd walk through the door refused to release its grasp on her heart. But the sun was setting, and its real occupants were surely inside.

 

 _Varric would have found a way,_ she thought with a sigh. Whether it was breaking in or just spinning a fantastical, yet completely reasonable story about why they needed to inspect the place, he would have helped. Guilt settled in her chest as she realized how long it had been since she'd written him back. Shame had stayed her hand far more often than it should. That would be the first thing to change now.

 

Lost in her thoughts, she almost missed the young, blonde woman with a squalling babe in her arms entering the narrow house. Arenth burned with questions, but barging in and demanding answers would draw the exact kind of attention she intended to avoid.

 

Shaking her head, she turned to head east through the village, towards where the inn had stood last. To her -- and likely every other traveler's - benefit, it was rebuilt precisely as it was on the old stone foundations. 

 

The common area inside was sparsely populated, but still she strode towards a table in the corner facing the entrance, then collapsed into the creaking wooden chair. She hadn't realized how good it would feel to sit down. An involuntary shudder of pleasure escaped her as she stretched her legs, taking the weight off of her throbbing heels. 

 

"Long road?" The portly barkeep clanged an empty mug down on her table. She nodded wearily, gesturing him to fill the mug with whatever was in his pitcher. She didn't care. A booked room, 3 pints, and a hot meal later, she was ready to collapse in her room upstairs. As she stared at the steps to the second floor, contemplating the effort to walk up them, a tall, armored figure walked into the inn, greeting the barkeep. He turned back to scan the room for an empty seat, gaze drifting closer and closer to her corner. They locked eyes. 

 

He was well-muscled, though a bit stocky. Dark hair swept across his brow, falling partly into his ice-blue eyes that widened in recognition.

 

"You have some nerve showing up here." He growled, shoving chairs aside to reach her.

 

Shock kept her from immediately replying. At once, she wanted to embrace the man and punch him in the gut. 

 

Her throat barely made out his name. "Carver."

 


	18. The Herald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Inquisition prepares to depart on its first expedition to the Hinterlands, Lieta realizes that soon she will have to face the reality of battle and responsibility that she is far from prepared for.

Light filtered through the shutters directly into her eyes, motes of dust silently falling in its rays. As she struggled to sit up in her bed, Lieta's muscles groaned in agony, biceps protesting bringing her hands up to rub her face, shoulders trembling as she reached up to tie her hair back sloppily. 

 

Next was the _real_ challenge - standing up. Grimacing against the piercing pain in her thighs, she swung her legs to the side of the bed. Bracing her hands against them, she slowly stood up, feeling all the world like a corpse trying to pry itself from the grave. 

 

The past few weeks had been exhilarating. 

 

She'd never felt so much motivation in her life. It was as if a lifetime of desire had been trapped in a trail of black tar as she trudged along her life, but had finally caught up to her. The brightness and color and sensation of it all made it hard to stop smiling, to keep from laughing at every new discovery. Not even freedom with Davell had been this wonderful; a realization that filled her with pangs of guilt. 

 

She praised the ache in her thighs as she walked down her cabin steps, marveled at the new feeling of soreness in muscles she'd never even known were there. It had been a trying two weeks training with Cullen each day, learning exactly how bandits or templars would fight. She recounted the lessons in her mind as she walked through Haven towards the tavern. _A templar's first instinct will be to negate the magic around him. Lyrium allows them to dampen the presence of the Fade, and thus your abilities. Wards will be pointless. Barriers can't save you from his sword. You must prepare in advance what you will do if you face a skilled templar._

 

That was a lesson Solas had scoffed at. _For a true master of the Fade, templars' fumbling is nothing but an amusing distraction._  For her - and every other mage she'd ever known - it was far more deadly than a simple distraction. Thus, with thinly veiled disdain, he taught her rudimentary counters and more stable conjures. 

 

"Who taught you to use your magic, Solas?" She'd asked him during a break from casting, sipping from a small vial of lyrium. The draining weakness of hours spent practicing the same spell over and over and over was like nothing she had ever experienced. It was far different than the fatigue from physical training -- it permeated to somewhere deeper than her bones.

 

"My mother." He had replied after some hesitance.

 

"Was it like this?" The thought of a young Solas was difficult enough, let alone one struggling with magic. His genuine laugh at the question had caught her off guard.

 

"It was _nothing_ like this." 

 

Time passed quickly as she reviewed the lessons again and again in her mind, somewhat surprised to eventually look up and find the door to the tavern in front of her. Shaking her head from the clouds, she walked in to a pleasant blast of warm air and took her place across from Varric. Within minutes breakfast was in front of her - always seeming to be more robust than everyone else's. Precious boiled eggs, the largest and softest slices of bread, the least rotten pieces of fruit. Each morning she pushed aside guilt to wolf everything down. 

 

"Slow down there Herald, we've got plenty of time before the horses are ready." Varric chuckled, leaning back in his chair and sipping from his customary morning ale. Lieta felt hot blush creeping up her face, something she'd long forgotten intruding her thoughts.  _This will be one of the most important things to remember, her mother said kindly, delicately picking up a small fork, a lady must always remember to eat slowly and gracefully. She is never in a rush, she is never truly hungry._  

 

"I'm sorry...I don't know what's happened, I never used to care about food but suddenly I feel...I feel _starving_." She couldn't even remember a time in her life she'd felt this kind of insatiable hunger, or any sort of feeling remotely like it. "I don't know how to describe what these past few weeks have been like Varric. It's like...I don't know. I can't describe it." 

 

"Hey, don't apologize to me. You're not doing anything wrong. I mean, I could hardly begrudge anyone having a hearty appetite." He laughed again, taking another long sip of ale. "Besides, we've got a long day ahead. And let me tell you, no one's ever fantasized about the stuff they carry in those travel packs." He shuddered, "Trust me." 

 

"To be honest, I don't even know the last time I rode a horse Varric. I must have only been...six years old?" 

 

"Yikes kid." He said with a cringe, downing the last of his ale and standing up, "Well, I'll tell everyone not to give you a hard time when you're walking funny later. Anyway, got a few things to take care of before we're off. Let me know if you need anything, all right Herald?" She nodded, quickly finishing the rest of her meal then making her way to the last small council meeting before their first expedition departed.

 

Haven was bustling with uncharacteristic activity. Elven servants and couriers were everywhere, delivering packages and passing along hasty messages. Stable hands lead horses stacked with saddles and bundles iron shoes towards the gates. Villagers sat on their doorsteps, selling salted beef, preserves, charcoal pencils, hard candy, and books for ridiculous prices to passing Inquisition soldiers. The air was thick with a mixed earthy aroma of horses, a dozen cooking fires and the exhausted fumes of a forge that hadn't rested for weeks. 

 

As the muddied road snaked upwards towards the Chantry, Lieta was momentarily blinded by the reflection of sun and snow off the golden fabric of Josephine's dress, this one appropriately hemmed at the knee for travel, surprisingly revealing stylish leather riding boots as opposed to her usual thin slippers. As Lieta rounded the bend, Josephine bustled over to her quickly, looking fairly disheveled with a few strands of hair slipping from her bun and stuck to her neck with sweat. 

 

"My Lady Herald," she said quickly, bowing. She was the only one of their inner circle who did, and it made Lieta profoundly uncomfortable, "may I accompany you to the Chantry? We have a few things to discuss if you've time before the meeting." Her words were spoken hastily, and she hardly looked where she was going while scrawling a tally of supplies and notes.

 

Josephine always asked for her permission to speak, or to do much of anything in her presence. _The people must see that we respect you as befits the Herald of Andraste_ , she had explained. But Lieta was certain it must extend further than that. Though it was easy to forget, Lieta technically _was_ nobility, and that random circumstance of birth could be the only true reason Josephine gave her such deference. 

 

"Of course, Lady Montilyet," Lieta replied stiffly. In addition to learning from Solas and Cullen, Josephine had taken it upon herself to get Lieta caught up with what she _should_ have learned about nobility from her family. These impromptu sessions filled with charts of family lineage, titles, heirs, lands, military strength, and Chantry ties welled a sadness of unimaginable depths in her heart for reasons she could not explain. _I know, it's a lot to take in, Josephine said with unending patience and compassion, it can seem rather tedious, can't it?_

 

But that wasn't why her eyes glazed over and her shoulders slouched. By all accounts, learning the different designs, materials, history, and function of dagger hilts should have been just as tedious. 

 

And yet, it wasn't. 

 

"We have a few minutes before the meeting to review the families you need to reach out to en route to the Hinterlands. We should also discuss which Chantry members will be in the area that we can connect with. They will want to speak with you, specificially and..." She could feel herself closing down. Try as she might to listen as Josephine continued to rattle off the likes and dislikes of Banns Lanya or Gilroy or Parth or whoever, the words drifted through her mind like water, unable to take hold. Chills ran down her spine as memories surfaced of a wall, whose every nook and cranny she knew by heart. 

 

"Could you...just write that all down for me? I'm sorry, it's just..." Josephine smiled kindly as guards opened the creaking doors of the Chantry for them. 

 

"Of course, my Lady Herald. It's an awful lot to remember."

 

"Yes I'm...I'm not sure how you do it." Josephine rolled her eyes in a rare moment of informality and tapped her head with the edge of her pen. 

 

"This is the only weapon that I have, my Lady. I do work hard to keep it sharp." She paused before the door to the council chamber, "I do also acknowledge that I have been in this insular world of nobility for my entire life. That has its strengths, as well as its weaknesses. The people will never trust me as the would one of their own." Josephine sighed deeply and cast her eyes to the floor, sounding almost regretful,

 

"Difficult as your life may have been, and though you are nobility yourself, my Lady, coming from a life in the Circle and with the name of Andraste at your back, you have a far greater chance in garnering their love than I or Lady Cassandra."

 

She opened her mouth to continue, but her breath hitched in her throat for a moment and she paused, "Just ahh...just keep that in mind while you're out there." She finally finished, and opened the door for her. _What in the world was that supposed to mean?_

 

"Ambassador, Lady Trevelyan." Commander Cullen nodded to them both respectfully, hands clasped behind his back, though he looked a bit restless. Leliana sulked in her usual corner, feeding bits of dried corn to a group of squaking crows in a cage beside her as she pulled small rolls of parchment in vials off their legs. Cassandra was sitting on an empty crate, oiling her blade with a soft cloth in the most tender manner Lieta had ever seen her handle anything. 

 

"Apologies for our tardiness, I held up our Lady Herald." Josephine resumed speaking with her characteristic haste as she sat down her piles of parchment, shuffling through page after page to find the itinerary for their meeting. 

 

"I would like first to bring up something interesting from my scouts' reports," Leliana said, passing a small scroll to Cullen, "All over there is word of roaming packs of Orlesian Wardens hunting for someone. The pattern seems to indicate they are heading east, towards Orzammar." Her eyes widened momentarily, gaze turned inward. In a second, it was gone, and she continued, "I think it's important that we figure out what they are up to immediately. This is the first we've heard from Wardens in quite some time, especially as the Ferelden Wardens seem to have disappeared entirely." 

 

"That's not exactly on the way, Spymaster." Cullen said gruffly, handing the note back dismissively. "We have precious little time for detours." 

 

"No, however if you had read the entire note, you would have noted mention of a Warden conscripting in the Hinterlands," Leliana bristled with irritation, "which, I believe, in on the way to the Hinterlands. Think we can spare some men for _that_ lead?" 

 

"We'll see." Cullen replied with a snarl. Cassandra just rolled her eyes and continued with her methodical oiling.  _Josephine spends her time educating me on pointless minutia between nobles, but not between our own leaders?_  

 

"In...any case..." Josephine interjected, dipping her pen in ink, "We should next go over how Cassandra will get to Mother Giselle; Leliana your scouts still report heavy fighting so we should..." The rest of the meeting was confirming their route and schedule, setting Lieta up with some vaguely familiar Ansburg nobleman to help with her horse, and several other technical logistics that went right over her head.

 

An hour later, feeling rather awkward and useless, Lieta left the chamber, having said perhaps 5 sentences the entire time. As she turned her mind onto recounting Cullen's lessons instead, Leliana called out to her from the chamber. "A moment, Herald. Please, close the door behind you." Brow furrowed in confusion, she complied, feeling rather put on the spot. 

 

"As you may have noticed, neither Cullen nor Cassandra feel my lead on this Warden to be very prudent or relevant. But it _is_ important, far more than they realize." 

 

"So...why wouldn't they follow up on it?" Lieta asked hesitantly, hoping not to get caught in some verbal trap -- something else the templar Victoria had been fond of doing. 

 

"They believe that I am...biased." 

 

"Are you?" She was shocked at the bluntness of her words. She never would have talked back to a superior like that in the Circle. Josephine's deference must be getting to her. 

 

"Yes," Leliana answered with a sly smile, "however that is not the case here. The Fereldan Wardens disappeared only a few months prior to the Conclave explosion. I'm not willing to believe that's coincidence until I know for certain." Before Lieta could come up with something to say, she thrust one of the crow's scrolls into her hands. "The Warden's name is apparently Blackwall. He was last seen somewhere in the hills surrounding the King's Road near Redcliffe. Send some men or go out there yourself, I don't care. But find _something_." 

 

"A...are you sure you should be entrusting me with this, I mean Cullen or Cassandra are much..." 

 

"Are you saying that you are not capable of controlling your own actions?" Leliana interrupted, eyebrows raised expectantly.

 

"I didn't...no, but..." 

 

"Good. Then I look forward to your report once you've found him." 

 

Taking that as a dismissal, Lieta turned and opened the door again, finding herself trembling from something other than her fatigued muscles. 

 

"One last thing, if you will, Herald," Leliana said with a sigh, her expression softened, "They will follow you, you know. I know that this can seem...daunting. But if you cannot trust yourself, trust me: they will follow. You simply must  _ask them to._ "

 

 _What a ridiculous notion_. Lieta turned and left the Chantry, the words of Josephine and Leliana buzzing around her mind like gnats. Everyone well knew the only real reason she was going was because a happenstance accident landed her with a magic hand. It had been fun to pretend for a while she could be something more with Cullen and Solas' lessons. But they had to realize she wasn't actually capable of what they were asking.

 

Her body still trembling, she made her way back through the muddied streets, blind to the villagers offering her free goods, and towards the stables with a growing sense of dread. She didn't know how to ride a horse, and now she was to go on a trek of several weeks. Did they think she was made of the same stuff as Cassandra? Of Cullen or Varric? They were wrong.

 

_Davell, I need you to be here. I can't do this..._

 

But Davell was dead, and Lieta was on her own.  


	19. The Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long road to the Hinterlands, and the Herald of Andraste seems to have fallen sullen. Common enough upon the eve of battle for new soldiers, as the Commander can well recall. There's only one thing to do - strike with real steel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I consider most of the chapters up until this point exercises in Character Development, I feel much better about everything.
> 
> Also next chapter is The Nightingale, if you're frustrated with wondering why Leliana is being such a bitch lately!

"We must approach the mages for aid, that much is quite clear." Leliana said in an insufferably smug tone, inspecting the faded titles of his well-worn books as if she owned the place.

 

"Perhaps to you. You _really_ think bringing an army of mages to the Breach -- a literal hole in the Fade -- with no templar protection is a _good_ idea?" Cunning and intelligent as she may be, Leliana had a blind spot for mages. Cullen had some ideas as to why. 

 

"Ever the templar I see." She said curtly. She had to know how those words would dig under his nails and bring a snarl to his lips. Why was she being so antagonistic towards him? 

 

"You think this is because of my templar training?" He rose from his desk, moving to stand dangerously close to the woman who always kept a dagger in her boot. 

 

"Trust that my judgement is not without reason, Commander. And that yours has been...clouded." He narrowed his eyes, stepping even closer to where he needed to look down at her. Her gaze was sharp, eyes blue and clear for the first time in weeks. With her hood pulled back, he noticed she'd framed one side of her face with a loose braid. It seemed odd for someone like their Spymaster to care for such details. Sometimes he could see what Mauren saw in her. 

 

This was not one of those times. 

 

"You think I can no longer be rational because of that? You think my arguments can be so readily dismissed because of your ideas of my character? And what of your biases Spymaster, hm?" He'd been raising his voice, looming over her in a threatening manner he'd not used since...

 

"Get out." He said softly, turning away from her. 

 

"Just know, Cullen," Leliana whispered in low tones, "you may need to get used to taking orders from a mage very soon. When that time comes, I hope you're ready to put that pride of yours aside."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The deepening shadows before his eyes danced and shifted, though the sun beat down directly above them. Cullen shook his head, trying to loosen the darkness from the folds of his mind, and bring himself out of his own head. One hand on the reins, one rubbing his eyes, he opened them again and saw the empty shadows were gone. 

 

The monotony of riding was getting to him. It seemed every memory that came to his mind was a bad one. Just trying to remember something pleasant at all was difficult.

 

Lieta...The Herald rode slightly ahead of him. Her earnestness to learn brought a smile to his lips, though he had noticed the slump in her shoulders since they'd left. Her riding instructor hadn't been able to leave her side in the five days since they set out. Her horse could still sense her radiating anxiety and seemed ready to bolt at any second. 

 

Cassandra had expressed serious concerns to him, but she wasn't used to raw recruits. _Is she just miserable? She whispered -- as much as Cassandra was able to -- with alarmed confusion as they stood around his campfire, Sunburnt, saddle-sore, exhausted?_ Josephine tried to offer her words of comfort and distraction, but that wouldn't work. Cullen had seen this a million times before. 

 

"Maker, I guess this really will be her first time in the thick of things eh?" Captain Rylen clicked his tongue, shaking his head. Cullen had been endlessly grateful for Rylen's presence for the past few weeks. Experienced men were hard to come by for the Inquisition. Let alone one who could relate to what Cullen had been through. Let alone a friend. 

 

"Yes, it will. Thankfully we've a lesson scheduled for this evening once we make camp. She'll be fine." 

 

"Will she? I've seen her getting off that horse, Cullen. Girl can't walk." His Captain's laugh tugged wrinkles into the corner of his eyes, betraying his youth. 

 

"That "girl" is your Herald, and older than you" Cullen replied with a smirk. Rylen wasn't wrong, however. He barely even remember the soreness of learning to ride as a boy, but he could only imagine hers was far, far worse. No one should start their riding career with a two week long trek.

 

"How are those "lessons" going anyway? I can't imagine you've been giving her an easy go of it. Dunno what it was like when you were recruited, but they practically tied our swords to our hands. Slept with 'em. Tried not to cut ourselves up in our sleep." Cullen chuckled, easing into the almost forgotten sway of conversation between soldiers. 

 

"Nothing quite that drastic for her. She's not exactly...manual combat material at the moment. Just teaching her enough so that she's not caught off-guard when some bandit takes a swat at her." He paused for a moment, then grinned at Rylen, "We've been using practice swords. Think it's time for the real thing?" Rylen raised his thick eyebrows with amusement, taking in the Herald's depressed posture, beet red neck and ears, and fidgeting horse.

 

"Why yes, Commander Cullen, I do believe it's time. Did I ever tell you about the first time they had me fight another boy with steel? Near pissed myself I was shakin' so bad..."

 

They fell back into comfortable banter, talking of old times. A dark, cloudy sky rose before them, the tops of pines swaying with the wind that follows a storm. The fur of his mantle whipped at his cheek and he could smell rain in the air. He smiled. It would be perfect for breaking in their most important recruit. 

 

* * *

 

He made the call to break for camp early. With the roads turned to sludge low morale from soaked boots and piercing winds hanging over them like a thick blanket, everyone was grateful.

 

Despite her clear misery in being drenched, hair plastered to her face and neck, Josephine and her assistants bustled around from one captain to the next, checking off their materials, health status, and the condition of their horses. _Just figuring out what sorts of things we need to...kindly request from our future allies, she said with a mischievous smile._  

 

Her riding boots were splattered with mud, flecks of it marring the golden fabric of her sleeves. He certainly had his grievances with nobles, but Josephine's sheer work ethic demanded his respect. He'd sorely miss her help when she and the young diplomats she was training departed to visit the local Banns. 

 

"How are you feeling, Commander?" Cassandra clapped a hand on his shoulder as he stepped off his horse, working out the stiffness in his thighs.

 

"As well as one could be in these conditions..." He replied suspiciously, handing the reins to a stable hand and starting towards where his pavilion was already being erected. 

 

"I am not good with being subtle, am I?" Cassandra said gruffly. 

 

"Part of your charm, Seeker. I suppose you must have seen me zone out a few times. To answer your _real_ question, I'm no worse." 

 

"Good. Well. Then...keep it up Commander." Her walk away was as stiff and awkward as her language. Expressing care was not one of her strongest suits.

 

He picked up two swords -- real swords -- from his pavilion and made his way through the quickly expanding camp. Pikes were hammered into the ground, flames attempting to burn in the downpour but mostly resulting in long trails of smoke and mist. It reminded him of the rare expeditions they'd take in templar training as a boy. Something to get their feet wet in real combat, fighting a few wolves or bandits to harden their nerves. He didn't have a wolf or bandit for the Herald, but he'd make do. 

 

His boots were drenched in mud by the time he reached Varric and the Herald's tents. The dwarf was seated on a low stool, keeping dry under the overhang of his tent, lovingly adjusting and oiling the various levers on his crossbow. Cullen had been burning for years to ask him where he'd gotten such an exotic weapon, ever since they met in Kirkwall all that time ago. But he'd never really felt close enough to the dwarf to do so.

 

The Herald was pulling sticks from a cloth bundle, Varric directing her in the best position to place each one. "Are you a mage or what?" He could hear Varric's laugh as he approached, "Get outta here with those matches and use that magic hand of yours." _There is no excuse for the use of unsanctioned magic by your charges. Every unnecessary spell cast is another opportunity to draw demons near. Tasks that can be done without the use of magic should always be done thusly. No cooking, no watering plants, no lighting fires, no healing of minor wounds. Should you see a charge doing so, bring them to your superior for appropriate punishment._

 

The Herald pulled her hand away and the fire was roaring. 

 

Just at the crest of a hill he could see a solitary light from what was likely Solas' dwelling. Cullen was more than just suspicious of their elven apostate "friend," but no one seemed to have the time nor energy to investigate the intentions behind a man offering free help. He'd normally ask Leliana more but...

 

"Curly! Come over to join the common folk? Think I could convince the Egg to swoop down from his nest and join us for a round of Kings?" _The common folk._ It was a bit disconcerting to be so highly regarded in the Inquisition. New recruits just assumed he was a noble like Josephine or Cassandra. He'd always thought it was just the armor; most commoners couldn't afford plate, let alone decorated plate. He pushed down the small flush of embarrassment that thought brought up. _I didn't ask for that. That's on Josephine._ Though, he had helped her _a bit_ to design it...

 

"As a matter of fact I'm here for the Herald. We have practice." He held the sword out to her in its scabbard, hilt first. Her brow furrowed in alarm and confusion, the fire reflecting the bright amber-gold in her eyes.

 

"Are you serious? In this weather? Cull - Commander, I feel that I can barely move after..." 

 

"Good, then it will be more realistic. Take the sword." Though hesitant, she reached for the sword, trembling slightly. "Come, there's some even ground I spotted not too far from here." Varric's laughter trailed them as they headed outside the perimeter of the camp. Glancing over at her, her shoulders were still slumped, eyes downcast towards the mud and crumpled grass. 

 

"This is normal, you know." He said after awhile. He stopped after they were on flat ground, outside earshot of the camp. "What you're feeling. That's the first thing to understand." He fell into a basic offensive stance. By rote memory -- which was good, considering the hundreds of times they must have practiced that reflex -- she dropped into an athletic stance and defensive pose, albeit with a grimace of pain across her face. 

 

"What is it that you think I'm feeling, Commander, besides sore and tired?" She sounded exasperated, voice hinged with pain. He took one cross-step to her left, waiting for her to make the correct reaction.

 

"Fear. Worry. The crushing reality that weighs in your gut telling you,  _this is happening. I could die, but there's no going back."_ He took two faster steps forward, lunging his sword out, though at a distance where she'd be in no danger of being hit. She jumped back several feet anyway, slipping and losing the proper footing. 

 

"Right there, for instance. If this was a real fight, you'd be dead." Lieta looked at him incredulously, regaining her footing and defensive stance.

 

"Is this supposed to make me feel better somehow?" 

 

"I don't know if "better" is the word I'd use." He replied calmly, sweeping his blade out again, testing how she'd react. Though she still flinched back more than she needed, she kept her footing. He lunged again. She slipped, falling into the mud with a cry of frustration. 

 

"What is the point of this, Cullen? To show me how quickly I'm going to die out there? You think I don't already know that?" She got to her feet with great pain, gritting her teeth, the muscles of her jaw flexing. It was hard not to stare at that. 

 

"No. The point is to show me your will to _live."_ He started an attack routine they'd practiced over and over. Her only goal was to defend herself and push him back. Step right, crossover, fake back, thrust. She was doing admirably considering it was their first time with real steel. But he could see her eyes locked on his sword, and the rigidity of her movements. She was only performing a step-by-step program. No natural reactions, no room for improvisation. 

 

 _Step right, crossover, fake back, cross right, sweep low._ She was taken aback, as expected, losing her footing.

 

"Watch my _feet_ , Lieta! Show me your will to live." He wasn't expecting miracles from her. Slowing his movements down to her level was almost as trying as a real spar. That wasn't the point.  _The Maker may call upon you to do difficult things. There will come a time in each of your lives where the Maker will demand you take a life to protect another. He may call upon you to cleanse the lands of those who would defile it, forsaking the Maker's creations._

 

_In those times, you cannot fear the blade that rises for false idols. You must think not of the pain of being struck, nor of the vessel of evil you seek to destroy. You must sing the words of your life inside of you. Your will to survive must radiate from the very heart of your faith, that you may continue to serve the Maker in all His glory. Let the song of your life drive fear into those hearts of evil, that the light of His creation rend them from the inside out._

 

He repeated the same switch-up. She was still unprepared, but the doe-eyed look of fear was gone from her eyes. He went a bit slower, changing up his steps and waiting for her to respond in turn. "Good. Now watch my hips. Your opponent's hips will always tell you where they intend to go next."

 

He strung twenty steps together, consistent enough to fall into a rhythm, but diverse enough to keep her on her toes. The ringing of their swords was muffled in the downpour, his own well-practiced steps sometimes faltering in the slick mud. Raindrops blurred his vision, and the muscles of his arms were straining to keep his movements slow and restrained. Even he began to feel tired. If the Herald was still handicapped with soreness, she didn't show it. 

 

She was doing well, and her movements were slowly inching towards the fluidity needed for real fights, albeit for a repeated twenty-step pattern. He'd been making a cautionary pattern: circling her to give her time to recover, plenty of fakes and testing strikes. He doubted any bandit or defector templar would have that sort of patience. Of great benefit for an experienced fighter like himself or Cassandra, less so for a terrified novice.

 

He struck quickly and unexpectedly. She hesitated, bringing up her blade just in time to deflect his blow. It was met with silence. He'd halted the strike inches above face, arm quivering with the effort of stopping so abruptly. He gave no correction, simply stepping back into the first offensive position, waiting for her to gather her bearings. 

 

He struck relentlessly. 

 

Their blades sung like bells, even through the storm. He drove her back further and further with each ceaseless strike. The fear returned to her eyes and she was barely keeping it together. Her small whimper of fear was unacceptable. 

 

"Let me see your will to live, Herald. Let me _hear_ it!" _You asked to be here, Rutherford, the Captain growled with irritation, in fact, you groveled if I recall. Cullen strained to hold tears back from his eyes, his hand sticky with blood as he pressed it to the gash in his sword arm. None of us are here to go easy on you. Earn your place. Prove your worth to me, boy._

 

He purposefully made a miss-step, lunging a bit too aggressively to recover from quickly. As he felt the wind from her sword that halted just short of his ribs, heard her cry of surprise and triumph, his heart swelled with pride. 

 

She looked up at him through strands of soaked red hair, grinning. The wet steel of her blade reflected a rippling beam of light across her face, revealing a faint trail of freckles. For a very brief moment, the impulse to embrace her flashed through his mind. _Moonlight fell gently through the clear glass window, contouring the gentle peaks and valleys that formed muscles of her back._ Just as quickly, it was gone. 

 

"If this were a real fight, Commander, you'd be dead." Lieta laughed, resuming a normal posture and sheathing her sword in its battered belt. "Though...if this were a real fight...you were going easy on me, I assume?" 

 

"Of course I was," Cullen replied bluntly, though not unkindly, "I've been training with the sword for...Maker...twenty years or more? You've held a sword what, two dozen times?" Lieta sighed, that small glimmer of pride flickering weakly in her eyes. 

 

"Lieta," he placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to meet her downcast gaze, "you're capable. There's nothing divine about training hard for years. You could do it, too. But thankfully, you don't need to, if that's not your wish." She looked up at him quizzically, pride not completely snuffed out. 

 

"Maybe...maybe you're not the strongest sword arm. Maybe you're not the most cunning mage Thedas has ever seen. But you know what? Sometimes Cassandra's too hot-headed. Solas... he's a prick. Varric takes nothing seriously. Leliana revels in deception past the point of practicality. Josephine is too kind-hearted. And I..." He frowned, slipping his hand from her shoulder, smoothing back the dripping strands of hair from his brow, "I've made too many errors of judgement."

 

"Maybe I'm too weak," She replied immediately, "Too inexperienced." Cullen had to laugh at that. How many pompous noble-born Captains with no leadership experience had he endured? How many lands were technically owned by a five-year-old Bann? 

 

"Says who?" He waited for her reply, but it seemed Lieta had no answer to that. 

 

"We...we should get back." She said finally. Through the crown of wet hair that framed her face, he saw her lips upturn faintly to smile. 

 

 


	20. The Nightingale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I debated for a long time whether or not to even write you this letter. Before you feel too pleased with yourself, know that I never feared your pathetic threats. You know as well as I what it would make you if you followed through on them. Do you want that blood on your hands?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are not in precisely chronological order. Trying to pepper in hints of where exactly we are, but hey I guess I like to keep ya'll on your toes :)

_The air itself rent asunder, Spilling light unearthly from the Waters of the Fade,_

_Opening as an eye to look Upon the Realm of Opposition In dire judgment._

 

_But Andraste did not stand on the other side. Only chaos and death._

 

She tried to blame herself, but the only fault she could find was being foolish enough to believe so fervently. 

 

_"Tell me true Josie, do you believe she is Andraste's Herald?" She set down her quill, looking hard at Leliana from across her desk. "I...should very much like to believe so." What a non-committal answer. Just like Josie._

 

Was it that easy for everyone? They'd _like_ to believe there was some purpose, some meaning in this chaos, so they just...do? Leliana needed more than that. She needed answers.

 

She'd allowed herself a week of thoughtless work to tourniquet their wounded world. That luxury was over. 

 

Now Justinia died every night. Sometimes by fire, flesh melting like slabs of ice to the floor. Sometimes by the sword, her blood spattered in an arc across the stone walls. Sometimes it was Leliana wielding the blade. But her last words were always the same: 

 

_Someone, help me._

 

Who should it have been? _The Maker,_ she thought reflexively. But prayers and pleads were only ever answered with damning silence. _If the Maker cannot intervene to save the best of his servants, then what good is he?_

 

No more believing that goodness was a viable option. No more naive notions of pity or mercy. The world had no room for such weakness. Invisible deities were not the answer to their problems -- only the living would ever come to their aid. What they needed now was people, not faith.

 

"You truly have no idea where The Hero of Fereldan is?" Cassandra asked with an arched eyebrow. 

 

"If I did, do you think I'd be here right now?" Cassandra seemed unconvinced. That was too bad. But she didn't push the question, just sighed heavily, massaging her temples. 

 

"Have it your way, Leliana. What do we have on The Champion, then?" 

 

"She's a hard woman to track. The last word I had was several months ago; they stopped for supplies far south from Redcliffe. I sent scouts out immediately, but they never could pick up the trail." 

 

"One of them should have been there, Leliana. We should have been there...maybe...maybe if we had then..." The Seeker's eyes glimmered in the lamplight, and the wrongness of it pained Leliana's heart. Cassandra was a hard woman. Tears didn't suit her. 

 

"Well, we weren't there. Ever forward, Seeker." _Ever forward._ It was something Mauren said after every new disaster the Blight threw at them. _I wish you were here, my love. You really are the leader we need._

 

But a greater threat loomed before them. She didn't know what, or why, or who. But darkness loomed on the horizon, she could feel the foreboding weight of it on her heart. Only Mauren would be able to fight it. "Regardless, don't lose hope. No one can travel unnoticed forever. One of my contacts will find her. Perhaps we will have luck, and Anders will be with her. You can lop his head off and you'll feel good as new." Cassandra scoffed, but the sadness left her eyes. 

 

"Cullen will not be pleased." She didn't need to elaborate as to why.

 

"I'll pay him a visit and...test the waters." Leliana paused at the threshold of the chambers, running her hand along the smooth stone. "Don't lose your faith, Cassandra. It's not what Justinia would have wanted." That's what Mauren would have said.

 

"I have seen horrors uncounted in my life, Leliana. This is just one more to endure. We must trust in the Maker's plan for us, even if it's not what we wanted." Leliana nodded weakly, closing the door behind her. _I'm glad it's so simple for her. But it's too late for me._

 

* * *

 

 

_I debated for a long time whether or not to even write you this letter. Before you feel too pleased with yourself, know that I never feared your pathetic threats. You know as well as I what it would make you if you followed through on them. Do you want that blood on your hands?_

 

_If you want her, it's obvious which side you'll be putting your weight behind in this war. That makes you my enemy, have no doubt. But I figure if you find her -- and that's quite telling for how pathetically desperate you are -- she'll implode your entire organization. And that thought just brings such a smile to my face._

 

_This is all I will say: She is heading north-east to find the Wardens. She means to find a way to stop the red lyrium. Good luck with that, I say. If she hadn't only been two days gone, I would have assumed she was behind the explosion. She's a history with the destruction of holy buildings and slaughter of innocents. Try to keep that in mind when you find her._

 

_She said he wasn't dead, but he wasn't here. What that means I'll leave you to figure out._

 

_Don't bother replying to this. Don't bother trying to find me. You won't. The second I saw her, I knew what I had to do._

 

_If we meet again, I hope it's on the battlefield._

 

She unfurled the end of the letter, a smaller scrap of parchment falling from it to the floor, along with the small black chip with a bird carved crudely into it. She hastily picked it up, hoping the Commander standing beside her hadn't noticed. _I must work harder on these chips. Forgery would be too easy._  Unfolding the scrap, she saw it was written with far messier penmanship: 

 

_P.S. If the former Knight-Captain is still there, let him know he's a fucking traitor._

 

Leliana scoffed in amusement. That boy had a lot of anger he needed to work through. _He clearly doesn't know how much of a templar Cullen still really is._  

 

Informing him that she now had a concrete lead on Hawke wouldn't be the best of ideas. He made his prejudice for mages abundantly clear the other day.

 

_If you go up there, promise me you'll slaughter them all, he stuttered through his sobs, they're all abominations, they must be killed! PROMISE ME MAUREN._

 

The unwanted memory brought a snarl to her face that she hoped her hood masked. Cullen would be a problem when she found Hawke. If she was lucky, perhaps he'd leave voluntarily. He was certainly capable as a Commander, but surely Cassandra could serve that role just as well?

 

The Seeker sat in the corner of the council chamber, oiling her blade with a meditative focus. She'd traveled enough with Cassandra to know her routine. Check armor, oil blade, double-check armor, polish shield. Check armor again. 

 

She fed the messenger crow an extra piece of corn. He deserved it for bringing such good news. Silently, she pulled the next crow's vial and unrolled the parchment, tucking its black chip into her pocket. 

 

_We moved our way into Orlais three days ago. Haven't encountered much fighting yet. One in Halamshiral and are en route to Montsimmard as ordered. Will inform upon striking iron._

 

_Along the way, we have been receiving several reports of small bands of Wardens combing the countryside. We've yet to run into one, but villagers say they're polite. Said to be looking for another Warden. No name, nor why they're hunting the individual. By the timing of reports, they are moving in an eastern fashion. Latest was from a village outside Halamshiral, north of the Frostbacks._

 

_We asked around to some other scout parties if they'd heard anything about it. None encountered a group of Wardens, but the Hinterland lead said there'd been a Warden conscripting some of her old neighbors. We recommend further investigation during the Inquisition's expedition. But as always we trust and await your orders._

 

The door swung open, Josephine bustling in with Trevelyan lagging behind with a furrowed brow. "Ambassador, Lady Trevelyan." Cullen nodded, looking up from the war table. Once he was gone, they'd need to arrange a new martial tutor for Trevelyan. Easy enough. She fed that crow a last bit of corn and closed their cages. 

 

"Apologies for our tardiness, I held up our Lady Herald," Josephine said politely, shuffling through several meticulous pages of notes.

 

"I would like first to bring up something interesting from my scouts' reports," She said while they were waiting, handing the scroll to Cullen. _Hopefully he can put our spat aside and spare me some troops._

 

"All over there is word of roaming packs of Orlesian Wardens hunting for someone. The pattern seems to indicate they are heading east, towards Orzammar."

 

Orzammar. 

 

She hadn't put the pieces together till she spoke it. 

 

_Clarel won't answer my letters. I'm afraid of what they're up to, Leliana, Mauren's letter read with an unsteady hand._

 

There was no way to get word to Mauren, no way to warn her. _Maker, she probably doesn't even know about the Conclave._

 

Mauren in uncharted darkness, Hawke heading to Vigil's Keep, their entire army going south, her scouts ranging too far to get to either quickly enough. What allies were left she could trust? 

 

Alistair? No, he'd send his own troops, and bless him but she did not trust strange men, even if they flew his banner.

 

Bhelen? No chance that he'd send anyone into the Deep Roads just for her. He wouldn't even do it for his own damned throne until they'd come along.

 

Any of her Chantry contacts were dead or despised her now. _Foolish Roderick. Such a weak man._

 

All of her remaining power was here, in the Inquisition. But she had to rely on Cullen to get anything of force done... _or do I?_

 

One glance at Trevelyan told her. Downcast eyes, fidgeting feet, furrowed brow. But behind her lay the belief and fervent love of a people that named her Herald. _If I tell her how to use just a fraction of that power..._

 

Leliana put a smile on her face. "I think it's important that we figure out what they are up to immediately..."


End file.
